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“Where else am I going to go?” I tease, and he just gives me an annoyed look as he makes his way to the front of the bus. He’s only gone for a few minutes before he returns, grumbling under his breath. “What did you find out?” I ask.
He looks like he’s trying so hard not to curse in front of judgy Pakistanis. I mean, it’s hard to say if any of them would know what’s he’s saying, but if Sarfaraz has taught me anything, it’s to not assume people around you don’t know what you’re saying just because you’re speaking in a different language. “Two flat tires,” Sarfaraz announces, scowling. I open my mouth, but as I do, Sarfaraz holds a halting finger up at me. “If you say something about being cursed, I’m tossing you off the bus.”
I clamp my jaw shut. Then I ask, “So what do we do now?”
“Nothing. Because there’s nothing we can do but wait for another bus to show up and bail us out.” He bites his lip, and I try not to focus on it. “But...”
“But?”
“But that could take hours,” he reveals. “Apparently, we’re in the middle of nowhere in between big cities.”
A heavy feeling plunges down my throat and settles into my stomach, like I swallowed a rock. I sit there for a second, then nod once. “Alright.” I get up and grab my backpack from the floor. “Move out of the way.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m walking to Karachi,” I announce. “If I have to get there on foot, I will.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sarfaraz sits back down, probably because he hopes I’ll take the hint and do the same. I remain standing, though. “We have to wait for the bus. I’m sure it won’t take that long.”
“You don’t know that! With my luck, it’ll take hours for another bus to get out here.” I gesture to the space around us. “There’s no food and no bathroom,” I point out. “I’d rather take my chances walking and hopefully end up at some village.”
“And then what?” Sarfaraz questions. “Some of them don’t even have electricity, let alone cars.”
“I don’t know,” I grumble. “I’ll borrow a horse or something.”
Sarfaraz stares blankly at me for a long moment. “A...horse,” he deadpans. He tilts his head to the side. “Have you ever been to Pakistan before?”
“Hey, I’ve seen the horses pulling carts on the road! I’m sure if I slip someone a few rupees, they’ll help.” I square my shoulders and squeeze into the aisle.
I’m about to walk to the front of the bus when Sarfaraz grabs my wrist. His palm against my skin sends a shock up my arm, and it distracts me long enough for him to tug me back. “If you go out there, you’ll be on your own,” he starts, and the severity of his words is bolstered by the stern pull between his brows. “That’ll put you in even more danger than if you just shut up and sit your ass in this bus.”
Ordinarily, I would have wrenched my wrist out of his grasp and gone down anyway. Who’s he to tell me what I can and can’t do? To insinuate I can’t take care of myself?
What stops me, though, is the sincerity in his pupils. He continues to stare at me, his eyes urging, pleading.
With a long, defeated groan, I scootch past him and slump back into the seat.
16
Maya’s Law #16:
Not everything is written in the stars.
The hours trickle by, and anxiety eats at the lining of my stomach. I guess Sarfaraz is anxious, too, because he keeps tapping his fingers against his lap. I stare at the action for too long, and when he catches my eye, I look out the window instead. My throat dries as I watch the sun dip below the horizon. When the sky changes from a dusty pink to shadowy purple, I whip my head to face Sarfaraz. “Where is the bus? You said it wasn’t going to take long.” I gesture to the window. “The sun’s gone down!”
Sarfaraz fixes me with an annoyed stare. “I don’t know, Maya. I’m sitting on the bus next to you, not driving the bus on the way here.”
I groan and bang my head against the seat. Pain prickles at the back of my scalp, but the frustration boiling in my body masks it. “What are we going to do?” I grumble. “It didn’t take us this long to drive all the way out here; what’s taking so long?”
“I don’t know,” he says again, but this time his tone is more sympathetic.
“This is all my curse’s fault.”
“Would you stop saying that? Curses aren’t real.”
I don’t bother insisting that they are, because he’s never going to believe me, so I might as well save my breath.
Then, one by one, people at the front start leaving the bus. Sarfaraz watches for a few seconds before speaking up. “Excuse me!” he calls out in Urdu.
