24. RAVEN

24

RAVEN

Staying away from Maddy for two days is complicated. My thoughts are almost constantly interrupted by visions of her from our brief encounters.

Discipline, I tell myself. But I'm getting impatient.

I can't sleep lately. Reading doesn't help much. I find myself spending evenings flipping through her files, social media archives, and videos. I'm reliving Milena Tsariuk's college years, and I know it's bad, bad, bad. Worse than any addiction. I watched dozens of her videos—birthdays, club dancing, a party, another party, pictures with her father, though there's only one picture with her late mother. I'm surprised so much of her life was on public display, considering who her father is. There's her BFF—actual Maddy, taking a video of Milena studying, her lying on the bed, her legs raised, white-socked feet against the wall as she sings something.

I can't look away. No one on this island knows this Milena Tsariuk.

Milena—Maddy—Milena—Maddy. My mind flips between the two versions of her, occasionally getting a glitch.

When I manage to peel my eyes off the phone screen, it's usually late into the night. And I can't sleep until I either take care of my hard-on or take my notebook and write down my thoughts.

And then I'm up at dawn, at my alcove by the ocean, smoking away my obsession and feeling like something extraordinary will soon happen.

I stay by the ocean until I know Maddy is up, and I check her porch camera, watch her do yoga then half an hour later leave for work.

I rub the fingers of my left hand together. The simple metal ring. When I checked out of juvie, I was eighteen, with nowhere to go, only the clothes that the state issued me, considering my old ones were stained with blood and too small, and this ring.

My thumb goes over the fingertips, briefly skimming the two missing phalanges. It's a constant reminder to keep my mouth shut, no matter what.

But I can only keep Maddy's secret for so long.

I walk down the rocky path to the beach, extra quiet this time, wondering if Ali is praying again. He probably thinks our previous meeting was a coincidence. No one knows about my alcove, except—right, the little dude.

When I lean around the corner of the rocks that reveal the beach, sure enough—my guy is right there. That's certainly a peculiar coincidence.

Except something is wrong.

Ali Baba is kneeling, his head bowed to the ground, but his hands are not touching the ground. Instead, they are crossed at his chest as if he is in a fetal position.

Suspicious, I take several steps toward him and clear my throat.

He doesn't spring to his feet, doesn't even raise his head.

Is he trembling?

I start walking faster toward him and notice that he is actually shaking, having some sort of seizure.

"Hey," I call out, but he doesn't respond. "You all right?"

I reach him and see that he is anything but. His fingers are cramped, like his muscles are locked, making them contort creepily.

I kneel next to him, push him on the shoulder, and he topples over sideways onto the sand. His body is rigid, shaking. His eyes are on me but glazed with pain. His lips move in an attempted whisper.

"I'll call the paramedics," I say, pulling my phone out.

But his lips start moving faster, and his voice gets strained when he rasps, "Pocket."

"Which one?"

"Pants. Small," he whispers, still shaking, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

I search multiple pockets in his cargo pants until I find a tiny clear baggie with one pill. I take it out and look at him in question, but he can't seem to unlock his arms. Instead, his lips open wider.

I've dealt with plenty of drug and prescription addicts back in my street days. So, I pry his mouth open wider with my thumb and forefinger and push the pill as far down his throat as I can, then tilt his head back until he starts gagging but inevitably swallows.

I sit back on my heels and watch his shakes slowly subside. I don't know how long it takes, but the sight is nothing new. I watched plenty coming back to their sense after highs or this type of seizure. I've seen a few croak. I prefer the former scenario.

Ali is coming back, I can tell. I glance at the little clear baggie that had the pill in it—it has the NDC number on it, and I stick it in my pocket. I will find out what the deal here is.

Finally, this guy rolls onto his front and props himself up on his shaking hands.

I get up. So does he, with difficulty.

I stare at him for a while, waiting for an explanation as he picks up the praying mat, his hands weak and still slightly trembling. He doesn't look at me.

"Care to explain?" I finally say, irritated.

"I have a condition," he says simply, folding his mat.

"Maybe you should be on time with taking your pills. You can't afford to show it." I skip the part where guards are not allowed to have any.

"I don't have access to meds. So I only use them when it's bad. And I just ran out," he says gloomily, straightening up and standing still as he finally faces me, meeting my eyes.

He looks like shit, dark circles under his eyes. He's not scared of what I just saw—that's surprising. He is not angry either, rather sad.

There are two possible scenarios of what comes next. Either he is going to beg me to be quiet about it or try to strike a deal.

"Gonna rat me out? I don't care, really," he says calmly, then simply turns around and walks away from me toward the guard tower in the distance, his usually assertive figure somehow stooping.

And just like that, I found out Ali Baba has a crack. Don't we all? Some cracks can heal. Others only get deeper. Of course, his won't be in his personnel file. It can't be. He wouldn't have gotten this job if it were.

I think about the episode last night. My intuition never let me down. And too many coincidences always put me on high alert.

Last night—even if it was due to Skiba's ignorance and Ali's sensitivity—wasn't a pretty situation, but, hey, we are all human, and security guards have their own dramas. But now I wonder why this guy is always thrown in my path.

I contact my HR guy at the Center and ask him for the pictures of the guards from Tower 201 who are currently on shift there. It's the one Ali walks to every day.

Sure thing, when I get pictures of four guards, one of them is my Praying Mantis.

Ali's last name is a combination of four different ones, or the middle ones, I don't know, I'm not proficient in the naming traditions of the Middle East.

I request his full file. Turns out, he was a sharpshooter in Sudan and Yemen, then served in Syria, then was honorably discharged.

I check his medical file, but it says he has no medical conditions.

Family—a father in the Arabic Emirates, hospitalized for the last year. Wife and two children died during the bombings in Spain.

Well, fuck…

His sister and her family are in the Emirates, too. Ali has been on Zion for half a year. Most of his paychecks are transferred right away to the billing company in the Arabic Emirates that handles medical bills. So, he's taking care of his father—I get it.

My mind goes back to the vision of him praying on the beach, and I can't help wondering what keeps people who have lost everything believing in the goodness of this world.

But I have this nagging feeling that won't leave me alone—I want this Ali Baba on my team.