“Ify, arrête. You are already a high-ranking medical professional. Ne fais pas comme une bébé. You have a responsibility to these people.” Céline calms down. The more excited or agitated she gets, the more her native French starts to saturate her sentences. “They need security. It is not difficult to see. I am sure many of the children were already being treated for other things when this began to happen. But the news is saying that many of the new cases are from children who had integrated well into Alabast. They were pretty much Alabastrine.” When she says it, she makes it sound more refined than what it is. Alabastrine means sameness. It means being swallowed up by the bland majority culture. It means whiteness. But maybe that is security. “Freedom from danger,” Céline says, completing Ify’s thought.

“So what are you saying I do? Secure residency permits for every patient in my ward?”

“Précisement! In one month, they will all be cured.” Céline grins.

Ify frowns at the procession. In her mind is a series of obstacles she would face were she to try something like that. Still, there seem to be too many missing pieces. Why now, when refugees were being deported since before she even arrived in Alabast? Why certain refugees and not others? Were refugees who had come alone to receive the same treatment as refugees with healthy families? Why weren’t adults being treated for this? What about Peter?

Her Whistle chirps angrily. It’s Amy. The last person Ify wants to talk to. She cancels the call, but the Whistle chirps again. And chirps and chirps. “I’m sorry, Céline, I have to take this. It’s Amy. She won’t leave me alone.”

“That’s fine. Family first.”

“She’s not my fa—” But Céline has hung up, her projection gone with the suddenness of a wink or a thunderclap.

Before Ify can get out a tired “Hello Amy,” the frantic voice on the other line bursts into her head. “It’s—it’s Peter,” Amy stutters. “He . . . he tried to hurt himself and we found him in his bedroom and the knife was on the floor and there was just blood all over the sheets and oh my God, what is going to happen? I’m so scared, why would he do this, Ify, please please please come home.”

The rest of Amy’s words turn into a dull hum, a buzz, as though Ify’s ears have been stuffed with gauze. She knows it is foolish to think this, knows that she doesn’t possess this degree of power, knows that she wouldn’t have been as malicious in handling it even if she did, but she cannot help but whisper to herself, “What have I done?”

CHAPTER

14

Every day I am returning to Lagos to look for Xifeng.