Chapter 15 Ro

In the telling of the story of this awful night, Ro would have said very little about the mousy, quiet girl with the glasses. She made very little impression right up to the moment when she plunged a steel implement into his throat.

When he'd been passing out the tabs and she'd refused hers, he had a brief welling of affection for Faye. Not that he cared one way or another who did the drugs—they were paid for—but he appreciated people who knew their own minds and didn't bore everyone around them with a lot of explanation.

Three weeks earlier, when he'd been standing in line to apply for his first-ever passport, he'd thought a lot about being that very sort of person. Decisive. He'd gone online and bought a one-way plane ticket to London that very morning, and the strength of his decisiveness propelled him to the passport office immediately after.

It was strange. Waiting in line and not texting Umu to pass the time. But decisive people didn't explain.

"Good morning," he said to the tired-looking civil servant when at last his name was called. "I've come to—"

"Renewal or new application?" The gray-eyed woman with droopy undereyes cut him off.

"New," he said.

"Speak up, son." Her voice came through a crackling speaker, a layer of plexiglass separating them.

"A new application." Ro found a stronger voice. "I've never had a passport before."

"Do you have proof of intent to travel?" she asked, without looking at him. The skin under her eyes was hypnotizing. Like deep pools. "A plane ticket? Otherwise, the wait time is twelve to fifteen weeks."

Ro went into his backpack. He'd read this part online and he'd printed his flight confirmation. He slid the printout through a slit at the bottom of the plexiglass.

The gray-haired woman smiled.

"London's a great first trip," she said.

He could have hugged her. She was the only person in the world who knew he was going to London. After he'd bought the ticket, he'd spent a little time looking at job boards for restaurant staff in London. Plenty of cool-looking places in Soho were hiring.

The gray-haired lady clattered away at her keyboard, working on his application.

"It'll arrive before August first but probably just before," she said.

He'd read that part online, too, but he appreciated the warning.

"So many people," she'd said, staring off into the distance as she waited for his credit card to go through for the application fee, "so many people wait their whole lives for a passport and then when they get one, they drive across the border to Montreal or Tijuana. Good for you, son, for swinging bigger."

He knew it wouldn't arrive until late July, but he still checked the mailbox like it was Christmas morning every day. That old lady at the passport office was still the only one who knew his plan.

Umu was thinking about grad schools and considering staying in Vermont, and he hated that idea, that he'd hold her back from going somewhere more exciting. In a sense, she was holding him back, too. Being held up against Umu and her achievements, or holding himself up against them, was exhausting. He'd always feel like nothing, because she was everything.

On its own merits he was excited about, proud of, the London idea. But as soon as he told Umu, it would be a little worse. She would say he was going off to London just to be a bartender when he could be so much more. Ro didn't need anything more than bartending; he just wanted to live an interesting life. It was only in light of Umu's expectations for him that his confidence in his plan waned.

He would tell her the day the passport arrived so he could show her it was a real thing. That was what he was thinking of when the hot blood began to bubble and choke him. When he tried to cough the iron tusk out of his throat and found himself unable to draw a breath, he thought about the passport and how he'd be dead before he ever got the chance to hold it in his hands.