Nanobots, Murder, and Other Family Problems

Wed 09/21 08:19:07 EAT

"It seems the events of yesterday morning may have instigated something of a kerfuffle. I've received an advisory that more armed insurgents have been spotted in the area where we were planning to work today. The risk of violence is higher than I'm comfortable taking you into," Father says as we finish breakfast and begin loading the trucks. "So we're going to skip the last of our planned desalination plants for Somalia and begin our work in Ethiopia early."

Me and the rest of the small circle of siblings gathered around him take the news without complaint and get back to work breaking camp. I stow my pack and sleeping bag in the pickup bed and do a quick double-check of the shelter to make sure we didn't leave anything. I give the floor a quick sweep with my bots, leaving it clean for whoever comes along next. I feel good today. Lighter. The tumultuous swirl of hate and love for Father is quiet for the first time since I found out he killed Mom. I'm not over it, but maybe I could get used to this. No more need to plot and scheme and look for openings and figure out how not to get caught.

We pile into the van. Bashir is driving today. He backtracks to Berbera then heads south. A faded sign says "Road Number 1" in English and some other script I can't read. I wonder if it's the first modern road they ever built here. It isn't anything fancy—the aging asphalt has plenty of bumps—but it's smoother than the dirt roads and cross country runs I've been dealing with all week. Even with the potholes, the hum of the tires on the road is soothing. I lean my head against the window and let it lull me.

I feel sleep coming. I don't fight it.

My clock skips forward and I taste the subtle change in the flavor of my own mouth that tells me that I napped. Awake again, I notice the van is moving at a crawl. I lift up my head and look out the front windshield to see what's going on. The road ahead is blocked by camels, a good sized herd. Or is it a caravan of camels? I should know the name for a group of them, but I can't remember it. Chad, up in the front seat on sentry duty, is looking at them with his usual suspicious glare. There's nothing to worry about. He would have woken us all up a while ago if the camels had been packing any weapons. We get past them and the road hums again, lulling me into a place halfway between here and sleep.

My mind clock jumps another hour. We slow down again to pass a donkey cart. I glance back past through the dusty rear windshield. Father is still behind us in one of the pickups, riding with Ahmed. I look ahead and can't see Kofi and Ibrahim's trucks anymore. I think someone said they were going ahead of us to the border station. When we finally catch up to them, we get the VIP treatment. Big smiles and a wave right through into Ethiopia. They must have greased a few palms.

I rest my head against the window again. Not quite sleeping, just mellow. This drive day has been a nice break. It feels like we've been going non-stop for so long, even though it's barely been more than a week. Everyone in the van is quiet, without even the standard jabber from Marc's motormouth. I glance at him with one of my eyes. He's out cold. If he were awake, I'd be tempted to ask for another story.

We stop in a town called Jijiga for a late lunch. It's a more modern place than anything we've seen since Djibouti City. And green. Surprisingly green. It has a squared-off grid of streets like Denver does. I feel a twinge of homesickness. Not for the campus, but for my old home. For Mom.

We eat at a restaurant inside a hotel. They do meats and sauces on top of spongy flatbread like we've gotten used to, but the Ethiopian variation of the bread is bigger than the Somali version, like the size of a big pizza for just one piece of it. The seasonings they use are different too, but just as good. The roasted goat is delicious.

Back on the road, belly full, the clock skips ahead again. The bumps of a dirt road beneath us rouses me. It's just after sundown when we stop for the night. There are some lights off in the distance, the kerosene lanterns they use in the villages around here.