The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne

watering.
    This is my favorite stuff, said the man in the blue jeans. I’m taking twenty cans of it back home.
    Where’s your home?
    Ethiopia, he said.
    Where’s that?
    Very far away, he said. You want to come with us?
    Don’t listen to him, said the white-cap man. He’s a famous child-snatcher.
    I said, Is he still a child-snatcher if the child wants to be snatched?
    They laughed. I liked these men. I was popular with them.
    Ethiopia is near the other ocean, said the white-cap man. Across the Sahara. Have you learned your geography?
    No.
    Well, maybe you’ll get there one day, he said. But now you need to go back home.
    I don’t have a home.
    Of course you do. What does your chip say?
    I don’t have one, I said.
    No chip? exclaimed the blue-jean man.
    Slave, the white-cap man said to him.
    The blue-jean man’s expression changed. Ah, pity, he said, looking down at me.
    What’s your name? said the white-cap man.
    Mariama, I said.
    And where are your people?
    I have no people, I said.
    You’re Haratine, no?
    I don’t know.
    Do you work for a Moorish family?
    No. I’m free. I want to come with you to Ethiopia.
    Let her come with us if she wants, said the blue-jean man.
    Your mother birthed an idiot, said the white-cap man.
    The blue-jean man shrugged and dunked his bread.
    I’m Muhammed, said the white-cap man, and this is Francis. It’s very pleasant to make your acquaintance. But we must take our leave of your company to prepare for a nighttime departure.
    To Ethiopia? I said. I wanted to prolong the conversation because in these men, I perceived no harm. These were definitely the sort of kind strangers my mother talked about, and I needed to seek shelter with them like I promised.
    Yes. See these?
    He pointed to a line of three flatbed trucks, packed with crates and boxes.
    We’re carrying crude oil all the way to Addis Ababa. We leave tonight. So please, go back to your mother before it gets dark.
    I don’t have a mother, I said.
    Muhammed sighed. I think you do, he said, but maybe you’ve had a fight with her. You should go back and ask her forgiveness. A little girl like you can’t survive without one. And things are not safe in Nouakchott right now, especially for your kind. You know that, don’t you?
    I didn’t, but the bite of sea snake burned in my chest when he said so. I stayed silent.
    He shook his head and said, Allah go with you, Mariama.
    Muhammed turned back to Francis, and they brushed their hands of crumbs and then went behind a truck, not sparing another look for me.
    I turned and walked away, looking over my shoulder. When I was sure they wouldn’t see me, I hid behind an oil drum. And as I waited, the bite in my chest began to make a sound, a little cry that sounded like kreen, kreen, kreen.
Saha
    I’d been hiding on the truck for two hours when I stopped hearing the men’s voices and so imagined that they must have gone to sleep. I had made a little house; my roof was a green tarp and my walls were two drums of oil. I didn’t have much space to move, but I managed to turn around and face outward in a kneeling position. I rolled up the tarp until I felt fresh wind. I angled my head so that I could look out.
    Oh, Yemaya, I saw the most beautiful sight: a full moon blazing over the sea, like a sunrise all in black and white. I could see the ridges of foam rushing and rising as if they were crowds standing to applaud my passage. I was free. This was what was meant for me. I made the sound the waves seemed to make: sa-ha, sa-ha, sa-ha, which helped to silence the kreen, kreen, kreen.
    And just like that— zeep! —my tarp roof was gone.
    I looked up. Francis was looking down at me. He made a squealing sound like a baby goat and called for Muhammed, who came and shined a flashlight into my eyes. Francis was convulsing with giggles, but Muhammed was not amused.
    Mariama? he said.
    I didn’t