Page 18 of Savage Protector

Why won’t I listen? Why won’t I just do as I’m told, like a good Muslim daughter? Why don’t I want to please my family? Why won’t I just do what’s right?

“Leila? Are you hungry?” Megan enters with a tray of food. “Mrs McRae sent this over for you. A nice vegetable curry, with naan and rice.”

I sit up in the bed. The food smells good. Not as good as mydadi amanmakes. My grandmother’s tandoori rotis are as light as feathers, but Iamhungry. I haven’t eaten since…since when? Yesterday or maybe the day before.

“Shkaria,” I murmur.

“You’re welcome.” She sets the tray down. “When you’ve eaten, Zayn is keen to talk to you again. Do you feel up to it?”

Do I? No, not really. But my instincts tell me he won’t be backing off. And what choice do I have, really?

“Yes,” I whisper. “If I must.”

I takemy time over the meal, but I can’t put it off forever. Eventually, I set my fork aside. And place my more or less empty plate on the little bedside table. Moments later, Megan is back.

“Ah, you’ve finished, then? How was that?”

“It was good. Thank you.” I must try to remember to use English not Urdu. “Please thank Mrs…”

“Mrs McRae. She’s our cook. I’ll tell her. Now, Zayn is outside.”

“Very well.” I sit up further in the bed. “Please ask him to come in.”

Megan leaves, taking my empty plate with her.

The man who enters is pleasant enough on the eye, just as I remembered, though I wasn’t quite certain yesterday. Everything was so…so confused. I’d guess he’s around his mid-twenties, and Asian like me. Zayn is a Muslim name, so I suppose…

“Do you remember me, Leila? I was here yesterday.” He remains by the door, waiting for me to invite him in.

“I remember you.”

“You seem better today. How are you feeling now?”

“I…I’m fine.” Not entirely true…

“May I sit down?”

He’s very polite. It’s not as though I could actually stop him. “Please do,” I reply.

He enters, closes the door behind him, pulls a chair close and settles himself on it. He’s less intimidating now. I saw that he was tall, and seriously well-muscled when he was standing over me.

His sharply planed features soften into a smile. “I’m glad to see you looking better, Miss Mansour. And eating, too.”

“I’ve been well cared for,” I reply. “The doctor is very kind.”

“She tells me you appear to have no lingering ill effects from being in the water, but you do have a mild concussion.”

I reach for my temple, finger it experimentally. “Concussion? Did I hit my head?”

“How much do you remember, Miss Mansour?”

“A bit. Most of it, I think. I was on a boat with my father and my uncle. I think my cousins were there, too. Mehrban and Iftikar. Yes, Ifty was at the controls. It was his boat. I…I must have fallen overboard. Maybe I hit my head then.”

He regards me for several moments, then, “Is that all you can remember?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Do you recall arguing with your uncle?”

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