Erasing a rebel mark was a brave act. Coincidental little accidents were common in the city if help was denied, but Ariho was willing to take the risk. The next day, the purple brushstroke was replaced with another. It was bad for business, earmarking one before the city and the government.

I wish they’d stop. Scrubbing a doorframe isn’t the most fun thing to do, Ariho whipped his brow. Stretching out the creases in his back, time had been unkind, gracing him with cracks every time he moved and pains in places he didn’t know existed. Manushki wipped down and organised the counters. Ariho watched the boy; he didn’t deserve that life, normalcy, and peace were what he needed, but securing that for him was now proving to be an uphill task. “Well, hurry up with the counters and the display. Can’t have you cleaning up while the customers are around.” Ariho commented to the boy as he walked past him. “Yes sir.” The doorbell stopped him in his tracks; the heady, woodsy smell was suffocating “Aroho. My friend. It’s been a long time”.

Mezcal looked around the bakery; he couldn’t believe that Ariho had settled for this over the life he had offered him. After the deaths of his wife and son, he had changed, choosing a quiet civilian life over his offer for excitement. They had both seen the horrors of war; they knew that what they witnessed was a drop in the ocean of pain, suffering, and destruction that had infected the nation.

“Ariho, not Aroho. What do you want, Mezcal?” “Can’t a friend just drop in for a friendly hello?” It’s been years since we spoke. Do you hear from Cian? I heard the war efforts have been ramped up.” The pregnant silence birthed the deafening irritation, setting the air in the bakery on fire. “She’s fine.” Ariho bit out. Mezcal’s presence left a bad taste in his mouth. “Boy, go get me the apron from the back.” “Yes sir”. “What are you really here for, Mezcal? We both know you never just “drop in,” speak up.” “Who’s the boy?” “Cian’s. He needed work; I’m getting old. It worked out.” “His strong. Kind of old, don’t you think? For Cian.” “What do you want?” “You know Aroho. He’d be perfect. He’s young, strong enough, and he has a fire in his eyes. He reminds me of someone.” Mezcal stroked his chin dramatically. “Ah yes. You.” “I will not let him get involved in your operations, Mezcal! Leave him out of it!” “You remember what it’s like to be young. Don’t you, Aroho? Anyway, I’ll be in touch. Ring up these blueberry muffins for me, won’t you? My wife loves them.” “That’ll be 1000 shillings. My regards to Sheena.” Ariho handed the bag to him and said, “Bye, old friend. You are a sight for sore eyes.” The doorbell rang, announcing Mezcal’s exit. “Sir. He moves like a cat,” Manushki said, finding his voice. “Sniper training.”

Ariho paced up and down in the backroom. Mezcal’s resurfacing was a bad omen; he’d have to send a letter to Cian as soon as possible. The boy was not safe here. A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts, “Come in.” “Sir. I’ve closed up. Do you need anything?” “No. Thank you for today. You are learning fast; I’m impressed.” Ariho smiled at the boy; he had thawed out a bit in the past few days and was a diligent worker. “Okay then. Goodnight sir.” “Goodnight boy.” Hesitating at the threshold, Manushki looked back “Sir, not to be forward but you and Mezcal seem to have a history. A long one from the looks of it. There’s something dangerous about him but you seem like a formidable man in your own right. My mother used to say, don’t let terrible people curdle the light in your soul and never let fear stand in the way of your conscience.” “She sounds like a wise woman. Don’t worry about Mezcal; I’ll do what I have to for our safety.”

The rapping on the glass on the shopfront drew Ariho out of the backroom. “You finish up prepping the pastries, Manushki. Let me go see who that is. Early customers, I guess.” Cian rubbed her hands together, the morning breeze dancing between her skirts. Ariho would be so shocked to see her.

Noticing the odd purple paint on the corner of the doorframe with a note stuck to it, Cian stretched, but she couldn’t reach it. “Cian? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Wait, that last question was a silly one.” Ariho scooped her up and embraced her. “How could you travel during a time like this!? You could have been kidnapped! Always so impulsive. You’ll send me to an early grave.” “You worry too much. I’m okay. In one piece. Nothing’s missing.” Cian rolled her eyes and hugged her brother even harder. “Manushki, come and see who it is!” Ariho yelled. “Mama C!” the boy ran and jumped into Cian’s arms like a puppy. “You look well darling. Ariho is feeding you well.” “Yes ma’am.” “I have missed you, Manu. The house feels empty without you; everyone misses you so much back home. I’m glad you are okay here.” Cian said, and she held his face, searching the boy’s face for signs of distress. “Something is bothering you. What is it, my boy?” “I had a visitor yesterday.” Ariho spoke up. “Mezcal.” Cian nodded absentmindedly “Hmmm.” “Let’s get you settled in Cian. You must be exhausted from your journey. Manushki get her bag and take it inside.” “Yes sir.”

Ariho turned to Cian and put his hand around her. “What did he want?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice. “We’ll talk inside.” Nodding, Cian started to follow her brother, but remembering the note stopped, “Ariho, there’s a note stuck to your doorframe. What’s that about?” Cian inquired. Ariho felt the colour drain from his face as he looked up and saw the note next to the purple paint. Reaching up to grab the note, he felt Cian’s eyes watching him. “What does it say?” she probed.

He that gives not.

Receives not.

Showing the note to his sister, Ariho sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Mezcal?” Cian inquired. Ariho nodded and steered her inside, locking the door behind them and flipping the sign to close.

A rat scurried through the alleyway, stopping only to sit and survey its domain. The rain last night subdued the city’s spirit, rousing it’s dwellers in a sluggish manner. Ariho sat up and scratched his head. The nights seemed to get shorter and shorter the older he got, but the rain as it had when he was a boy brought him comfort and rest. As he walked to the bathroom, his slipper caught on a cloth, and he barreled forward onto a body in his path, shocking both him and the body. Ariho scrambled to his feet, his hands frantically searching for the wall and the switch. “Sir, it’s me. Manushki,” a voice said. Ariho froze then started to chuckle, “Boy, you gave me a fright!” finally righting himself and switching on the light. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to,” Manushki said remosefully. “It’s alright. No harm done. Would you like to clean up first boy?” Ariho inquired, taking in the boy’s disheveled appearance and wild eyes like a hare caught in a trap. “You shouldn’t fear me boy; it was an honest mistake. Mine, to be honest; I had forgotten I wasn’t alone,” he chuckled. “Go clean up in there, and I’ll straighten this place up. How about that?” “Yes, sir.” Manushki nodded and scurried to the bathroom.

Manushki leaned against the bathroom door, begging his heart to calm down. Mr. Ariho was different; Mama C was right; he was a good man. That bedroom incident would’ve gotten him whipped if it was Uncle Shiraz; he didn’t tolerate mess-ups of any kind. Any sign of deviation, disorganization, insubordination, or fear was cause for the Whistler to appear. His cousins had named the whip after the sharp sound it made as it cut through the air. No one was safe, not even Auntie Zipporah, but she had long resigned to the fact that it was her portion and barely flinched when struck. His fingernails dug into his palm as he squeezed them against his temples, slowly sliding down the door. He felt his world tilt before him as he started to spiral into an episode. His blood flowed deafeningly through his ears; a grinding sound echoed continuously in the background. Then he fell.

“Hey boy!? Manushki!?” Ariho knocked on the door, wondering what was taking the child so long. He then tried to open the door but the boy’s body was pressed against the door, using all his strength Ariho pushed the door, revealing Manushki curled up in a fetal position, quietly sobbing. “Hey, hey. Breathe son. Breathe. Slowly.” Ariho whispered softly while rubbing circles on Manushki’s back. He had calmed many men during his time as an army medic during the Smector Clash of 2304, Ariho wondered what could have triggered this attack.

Manushki slowly calmed down, breathing deeply as the voice instructed him. The fog cleared, and he could see properly. “Are you okay?” the voice asked. He turned, looking for the source, finally meeting Ariho’s eyes, looking at him with concern. “Y-yes” “Don’t try to stand up yet. Lean against the door and catch your breath. You travelled for a minute there. Let me get you some water; stay here.” Ariho said getting up. Manushki nodded silently, watching him leave. He must think I’m insane, he thought, letting his head fall back. “I’m back. Here’s your water; drink it slowly or you’ll choke.” Ariho said, handing him the cup as he lowered himself to the ground. “I was an army medic as a young man. I saw many men go through what you were going through.” He said, staring off at the wall, “Do you know what triggers your attacks?” he asked. “No. They started after I went to stay with my uncle and they got worse after my parents deaths.” “Okay,” Ariho said, nodding his thoughtfully. “Well, breakfast awaits. Today is market day and the best produce is the morning one. Come down and eat after you’ve cleaned up.” “I can only ride out the attacks, sir. I can’t stop them.” Manushki sighed, “I’ve tried.” “Don’t worry about it boy. I understand. You live with me now; I’ll help you anyway I can.” Ariho said with a smile. The boy was obviously dealing with something traumatic, and Cian probably thought he was safer with him. He resolved to help the boy any way he could; maybe this was the Lord’s way of giving him a second chance at fatherhood.

“Ariho, good morning!” Mezac called out from his stall “What are you looking for today?” “Oranges, lemons and limes. You don’t happen to have any berries, Mezac?” “Just blueberries.” He replied, holding up a small container, “and who is this? If I may ask.” “Oh yes, I’d forgotten to introduce him. This is my nephew, Manushki. Cian sent him to help me at the bakery.” Ariho said, wrapping a reassuring hand around the boy. Mezac eyed the boy; he looked nothing like Cian or her husband Mzra or even Ariho, as children tend to resemble relatives. “I’m adopted.” Manushki said sensing the man’s suspicion. Mezac nodded slowly. “Here are your things, Ariho. Oh by the way, my daughter’s birthday is next week; that carrot cake you made last time was a smash hit. Can you make it for us again?” Mezac inquired, handing Ariho his merchandise. “Of course. Come to the bakery tomorrow and we can work out the details.” Then, turning to Manushki said, “I enjoy making cakes for children because they bring them such joy. Their eyes always light up when they see it, warms my old heart.” “I’ll pass by in the morning. Oh, and Manushki, welcome to the neighborhood.” Mezac returned, shaking the boy’s hand.

The latter part of the morning was spent training Manushki; the boy had no baking skills and had a lot to learn. As Ariho organized the shop and put out the fresh bread, Manushki wiped the shop windows. Popping his head back into the shop, Manushki gestured to Ariho to come outside. “What is that? It wasn’t there when I arrived yesterday, sir.” Manushki said, pointing at a single purple brushstroke on the corner of the doorframe. “Rebels. That’s their color.” Ariho reached out to touch the paint; it was still damp, his fingers coming away with streaks of purple. “It’s still fresh. They did it this morning when we were in the market. Bring me a brush; fill a pail with water and soap. This is trouble,” Ariho barked out the order. They were looking for recruits and probably saw Manushki arrive. He stroked the brushstroke absent-mindedly; if he managed to erase the mark, it would buy him time to think.