“Every. Time. Whatever the good former reverend Harrison had on his agenda to discuss, Xola’d already have him thrown off his game plan. Because since the Camara rolled in without fanfare, all he had to ask VOP was if that was how they treated all of their ordinary citizens. And Xola always won his negotiations.”

A thin silence settled over the table. Bekele fashioned a partition to lean against.

“What are we going to do?” Dad whispered.

“I don’t know.” Mom almost choked on her words.

Bekele had never heard them so worried about the future. Not even his. He limped back to his room, suddenly embarrassed that he spied on a scene too intimate for him to observe. Leave it to his parents to make him feel uncomfortable at his own dinner table. Once safely ensconced in his chamber, he whispered to Maya. “What happened to Xola?”

<The details are sketchy.>

Bekele crawled onto his bed, his back to the wall. He tilted his head up, ready to address the ceiling. “Maya, it’s not like I don’t know that you have all the details down to the final death report. You could tell me Xola’s last dessert and blood sugar levels if you wanted.”

<Those details are outside the parameters of our relationship.>

“You might as well tell me that I’m too young to know. I can handle it, you know.”

<It’s not a matter of what you can handle. It’s about what you’re allowed. Clearance parameters.>

There was no point in arguing with them. Maya clung to protocols the way he adhered to breathing. Shifting to get more comfortable, Bekele raised his bed to a sitting-up position. He thought about linking up with one of his friends but remembered that they were in class—probably at a science duty station—and couldn’t be interrupted. And they didn’t know yet, about Xola’s death, though they would soon. Only then would his other “friends” remember that he still existed, and his comm channels would be jammed with his classmates prying for any extra sordid details that weren’t public knowledge.

A wave of light-headedness hit him so hard, he became nauseous. His hand reached for the wall to steady himself, fearing he might tumble out of bed. The next wave tore through him the way an iron claw might rake his insides, twisting his intestines into knots in the process. His limbs no longer responded to him. Bekele clamped his eyes shut. The attack wouldn’t last long. He had to hold on only for a minute or so.

As suddenly as it came on, like someone flipping a switch, the pain subsided. The memory of it lingered. He took a mental catalog of himself. His respiration coming back to normal. His heart rate slowed. The tingling in his extremities no longer burned. He slowly unclenched his hands, unsure when he had balled them during his spasms.