The Dog by Jack Livings

him. It was everyone’s fate to be dragged off by the Chinese. Omar, of course, viewed fate as little more than a starting point at which one began his negotiation with the universe. Everyone but Anwher, it seemed, knew how this worked. He’d struggled and made it worse for himself.
    Omar went to the slot in the floor and counted out a decent payoff. They’d be sure to liberate him of anything valuable he carried in, so he removed his watch and gold chains and dropped them into the hole.
    Then, outside to have a smoke and wait for daylight. He blew out his nostrils and packed the pipe. The monkey across the street was curled on a blanket beneath a window. Omar squatted down and watched the sleeping animal’s dim form.
    *   *   *
    Alone in the cell, Anwher had backed his spine tight against the concrete seam of a corner. His face had become a mask of dried blood and sweat. The unrelenting ammoniac stench of urine was thick on the air. Guards’ voices echoed through the corridor. When the prisoners moved, they moved in silence while the guards stamped beside them, shouting, “March, convicts!” Anwher envisioned his own grotesque death, but stripped of the chorus of sympathy usually humming in the background. Allah, mercy, I beg you. Despite the heat, he was freezing, so cold that he felt his hands might snap off like twigs. He knew he was waiting to be retrieved, and that alone kept him awake, his eyes sweeping the dim cell for movement. Finally, the door opened and two guards dragged him to the washroom, where they told him to strip, which he did, as they dumped bucket after bucket of stinging water over his head. He dressed with the deliberation of an eighty-year-old, and they dragged him off to another part of the prison. The barber and his mother were there.
    When he came into view, the old woman did a little dance. “That’s the one,” she said. “Hey, there, Uyghur. How’s life?”
    â€œCut it out,” a guard said. “That’s inappropriate.”
    Another guard shook Anwher by the arm. “You stole from these people?” Anwher tried to catch the barber’s eye, but the man wouldn’t comply. He’d made his decision. Anwher let out a low moan.
    â€œOh, that’s definitely the one,” the old woman said. “Coward.”
    The barber lifted his head to say something, but she cut him off. “You had your chance,” she said.
    The guard directed himself at Anwher. “You’ve stolen from a Chinese citizen,” he said, “and have damaged the reputation of your minority group.”
    The old woman laughed.
    From behind them a voice boomed, “Behave, all of you.” A round man filled the doorway and moved slowly into the room. His face was slick with sweat and the top of his coat was unbuttoned to reveal a roll of flesh at the base of his neck. At first the face was only vaguely familiar to Anwher. This was the commanding officer, that much was clear, and when Anwher placed him, he shrank back against the guard, who pushed him away. It was the fat man with the newspaper. “This is a crime against the People’s Republic,” the fat man said, “and it will be dealt with according to proper procedure.”
    â€œThey said it was on the house,” Anwher whispered.
    â€œOn the house?” the fat man said to the barber. “Is that right? For the record, did you say that?”
    â€œYou were sitting right there,” said his mother.
    â€œWe need to establish the facts.”
    â€œDo we look like we’re running a charity?” she said, then paused to consider the rules of the game. She had to be sure no traps were being laid for her before proceeding. “Did you hear me say it was on the house?” she asked the fat man.
    â€œI don’t recall,” he said, his face impassive. It was enough to satisfy the woman that she wasn’t going to land in a cell