“People in our clan are complaining about the amount of magic distributed to them,” Baarish’s son replies. “They seem to think the Dar is keeping the quota that is legally theirs. Abba, is the magic really decreasing?”

“If not, what? The decreasing magic has everyone around the world worried. Even the magic that is harvested is of poor quality,” Baarish says. They are silent for a bit. “Don’t worry. As long as I get the boy, we will have more than enough magic. Until then, keep the people in control. No matter what it takes.” He pauses. “Is the stock ready to be shipped?”

Stock? What kind of stock is Baarish selling? I listen harder.

“We had to move them. One of the children ran away and managed to reach the human police,” the son says.

“And?” Baarish’s voice is sharp.

“We paid them enough to buy their silence.” Baarish’s son chuckles. “It was an easy transaction.”

“Where is the stock now?”

“The warehouses near Shaheed Smarak Park,” the son says. “Jugul is waiting for us there right now. He wants to try the experiment before the stock is shipped.”

“Very well. Let’s go.” I hear the sound of a chair being scraped back and straighten.

I run to the empty sitting room Widad is hiding in a minute before the door to the study opens. We cower behind the closed door of the room until they are gone. Until we can no longer hear their footsteps.

Baarish, he sells children. He is involved in child trafficking.

The monster under the bed is no longer under the bed. He is standing in front of me, and I must decide whether to confront him or run away.

The question is, if I run away, how will I retain what remains of my humanity? I haven’t been human for a long while now, but some light in me still persists. I cannot bear to extinguish it.

Widad looks at me. “What is it?”

“I have to follow Baarish and his son,” I say. “You don’t have to come with me. Things may get more dangerous than you’ve signed up for.”

“Why? What’s happened? What did you find out?” The series of questions rushes out from her and lingers in the air between us. If I were kind, I wouldn’t answer.

But kindness is a distant skill. I don’t care to claim it too often.

“He sells children,” I say. Widad’s face loses whatever color it had. “I heard him talking about stock. He meant children. Widad, he sells children.”

Her hand clutches mine. It’s shaking. I squeeze it, but I need comfort myself.