One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 14, page 5

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Emperor Bhanar of the House of Narakamíníkı hardly paid attention as the cute policewoman processed him. She and an older policewoman took his wallet and keys, filled out some paperwork, took photos of him holding a signboard, and spoke in abrupt, emotionless phrases. Bhanar’s mind was on Pí‘oro.

The old man was dead. The policewomen knew it. It was obvious from their tone and actions.

How could this happen? What kind of universe did they live in that police could beat up an old man so much that he shortly thereafter dropped dead with a heart attack or blood clot or aneurysm or something equally horrific?

If Pí‘oro’s wife could call Zhíanoso to heal Bhanar’s legs, then surely she could--and would--call Him to bring her husband back to life. Pí‘oro wasn’t an emperor, like Bhanar, with genealogical ties to the High God of Fire, but he was certainly a devout worshipper.

Or had the old woman said she called the god Névazhíno?

Bhanar frowned, biting his upper lip.

She had said a lot of stuff he didn’t understand, thanks to his limited understanding of the Sarıman language, so maybe he misheard her. Yes, he must have misheard her.

The older policewoman led Bhanar through another door to a stark hallway lined with several holding cells. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting grim illumination on the scuffed-up yellowish walls and vinyl-tile floor. The cells were separated from the hallway with heavy steel bars running both directions. They were separated from each other with smooth concrete walls, painted the same sickly yellow as the hallway.

Bhanar turned back around to see past the door before it swung shut. The younger policewoman--the other had called her Nulıpésha--stared wistfully at him, her eyes red from tears. Bhanar flashed her a smile the closing door cut off.

The older policewoman opened the first cell and gently pushed Bhanar inside. The cell door clanged shut behind him.

Bhanar spun around, the reality of his own troubles finally hitting him.

“Wait!” he cried as the policewoman started walking away. “Do I not get to call someone?”

The woman grumbled, “In the morning,” before opening the hallway door with one of her keys and returning to the booking room.

Bhanar stood stock still in the center of his cell.

The solid door slammed shut, filling the empty hall of holding cells with a dull echo.

He was alone. Imprisoned in a foreign country, with no contact to the outside world. Would he ever be free again?

The cell began to swim in circles, growing darker. Bhanar’s knees buckled underneath him and he crumpled to the floor.

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