Cameron Donnelly did not like Ty. That had been clear from the moment they’d met with the sun beating down on them and nowhere to hide but under that threadbare tree.
Donnelly hadn’t been fazed by the sun, though. He probably wasn’t fazed by much, if that firm jaw and stern brow were anything to go by. Ty had read somewhere that there were three types of aid workers: the wide-eyed newbie who wanted to save the world, the weary veteran who had accepted that they were not going to save the world, and finally the gives-no-fucks lifer who had no interest in saving the world. Donnelly was a lifer.
Which really made no difference to Ty; he was here to get his story. Except he’d been here three days already and wasn’t anywhere near getting his story, not while following Donnelly around from meeting to useless meeting. At this rate, he’d end up with some stock footage and would never get promoted off the Chinatown beat. Interviewing Chinese grandpas about the latest mugging, or thug teenagers about the most recent car accident had been great for his first few years at CBN, but now he wanted to cover real stories that affected the course of world history.
Dani, Ty’s editor, wanted stories that would shock and awe: poor starving children, mothers holding dying babies, ramshackle shelters, and overrun health clinics. Meetings and spreadsheets were not going to get Ty his promotion.
Doug was still snoring into his pillow when Ty slipped out of their tent. The early morning air was cool against his skin as the sky began to brighten along the eastern horizon. He strolled down the row of tents reserved for short-term visitors, heading away from the mess hall and offices toward the edge of Admin Block, the fresh smell of dew tickling his nose. A quiet stillness reigned over the land, broken only by a few chickens clucking away in the distance.
He’d always liked the morning. A memory surfaced of himself as a child, wrapped in blankets as his mom drove to a park near their house. It was still dark when she pulled him from the car and they snuggled together on a bench overlooking a little drop-off, waiting for the sun to appear. He’d been too small to think to ask what they were doing, but he’d forever associate mornings with that sleepy happy feeling and the smell of roses that had always lingered on his mother’s skin.
The memory dissipated as quickly as it had materialized. That little boy felt like a stranger to him sometimes, someone who might have looked like him, but who would have walked a much different path than the man now walking between the quiet rows of tents.
He reached the end and stopped. Apparently, he wasn’t the only person awake. In the barely lit dawn stood Donnelly, one leg propped up on a fence as he stretched. His T-shirt hung from his frame as if it was several sizes too large, and his jogging shorts drooped so low on his hips that Ty was certain they’d slip off. The fanny pack he wore around his lower back wasn’t much of a belt.
Remembering how easily Donnelly had startled the other day, Ty made a noisy approach. Donnelly straightened from his stretch and turned. Maybe it was the early hour, or maybe he’d been caught off guard, but the Donnelly that faced Ty did not look like the same man he’d seen around the camp the past several days.
The Oakley sunglasses that normally obscured Donnelly’s eyes were sitting on top of his head, revealing dark bags and weather-worn wrinkles. His lips, often pressed tightly together and obscured by a scruffy auburn beard, were parted, full and plump. His shoulders were slack, and he had yet to pull his long wavy hair back into his man bun.
Donnelly looked him over with an appraising glance, as if wondering what the hell Ty was doing there. Then something sparked in Donnelly’s eyes—a flash of recognition, perhaps something more—before he blinked, and it was gone.
The transformation was incredible. One minute Donnelly was tired and world-weary, and in the next, his shoulders tensed, his posture straightened, and that . . . something in his eyes was replaced by the Donnelly he’d seen around camp. The give-no-fucks lifer.
“Good morning,” Ty called out.
“Morning.”
“You’re going for a run or something?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I join you?”
It was impossible to miss the way Donnelly stiffened at the suggestion, or the second, much more deliberate head-to-toe survey of Ty’s body. “Dressed like that?”
Ty quickly assessed his linen slacks and light polo shirt. Okay, it wasn’t what he typically wore to go running, but he could make it work. “Sure, why not?”
Donnelly shrugged, slipped the sunglasses over his eyes, and pulled his hair back like he was putting his armor on. “Suit yourself.”
He took off at a light jog, leaving Ty to catch up. They set a steady pace, and Donnelly led them through the streets of the camp. Street was a generous word for the lanes between the uniform tents, white with the UNHCR logo emblazoned in baby blue across the sides. Some had morphed into Frankenstein-esque shelters as residents had built onto the tents with scraps of plastic, metal, or wood.
Here and there, Ty spotted evidence of residents taking pride in their homes. Wreaths made of questionable materials hung atop makeshift doorways. Colorful fabric covered the side of a tent. A series of ribbons were tied to a nearby tree.
In front of every tent were women mixing packets of powder with water, young children sweeping dirt yards with brooms made of branches. As they passed, people looked up and nodded at them, as if it were customary to see Donnelly running through the camp. They were all quiet, though, a sharp contrast to the raucous crowds that gathered later in the day.
A million questions ran through Ty’s mind, but the rhythmic beat of their feet hitting the dirt ground and the meditative cadence of their breathing kept him from asking—the morning was too perfect to be disturbed. They continued for a while before Ty noticed a group of kids following them, most in bare feet, all keeping pace with no difficulty.
Ty glanced over at Donnelly and what he saw surprised him. Donnelly was smiling—an honest-to-god smile with lips curling and cheeks full. This was the first time Ty had seen something warmer than sternness on Donnelly’s face. A couple of the kids shouted something that Ty didn’t understand. Donnelly reached out, gave each of them a fist bump, and they all kept going.
The farther they went, the bigger the group of kids became, and the nods of greeting from mothers morphed into shaking heads at the two foreigners leading a bunch of kids through the streets. By the time they stopped in an open square, the sky had brightened and their posse of followers had grown to about twenty.
They were a mix of boys and girls, all with shortly shorn hair, covered in a fine layer of red dust from the run. Excited, they smiled and jostled each other. When Donnelly kneeled, they swarmed him, the bigger kids elbowing the smaller ones out of the way.
“Polepole,” Donnelly said, waving them back with the palms of his hands. He reached into his fanny pack and came out with a handful of colorfully wrapped candy. But rather than distribute them, he asked each kid a question and each one listened with intent concentration. Only after they’d answered his question to his satisfaction would they get their treat.
“Kumbuka kuweka hii siri, sawa?” he asked them, placing one finger vertically across his lips. They nodded, eyes wide, mouths full of sweets. He held out his hand again and collected the candy wrappers before stuffing them into his fanny pack. “Can’t leave any evidence around.” He tossed the comment over his shoulder so casually that Ty almost didn’t catch it.
“Mjomba.” One of the kids leaned in close and murmured to Donnelly, as the rest shifted their stares up at Ty, towering above them. “Nani huyo? Chi-na?”
“Chi-na! Chi-na!” The kids all started shouting as Donnelly peered at Ty, eyes obscured by the reflective colors of his sunglasses. His smirk was obvious, though, as if he thought this was the most amusing thing in the world.
Donnelly translated. “They want to know who you are. Specifically, if you’re from China.”
The unexpected question hit Ty like a blast of cold air, leaving him feeling like an imposter in his own skin. He forced himself to smile. They were kids. They didn’t know any better.
“No, I’m American.” Even he could hear the touch of resentment in the declaration. He suppressed a cringe.
Donnelly didn’t respond right away, but the smirk wasn’t as smug as it had been a minute before. Then he turned back to the kids with a shake of his head. “Si Chi-na. Marekani.”
“Marekani! Marekani!” they all started shouting.
He shouldn’t be so goddamn sensitive. They didn’t care if he was Chinese or American or an alien. All they wanted was something to shout at him and then giggle about afterward.
When Donnelly stood, Ty was surprised to find himself on the receiving end of a smile—the same one the kids had gotten. It only lasted a second before Donnelly blinked, and it was gone, leaving Ty wondering if he had imagined it.
Donnelly turned toward the kids again. “Kwenda shule sasa.” He waved them off, and they all ran back in the direction they’d come from. “Kwaheri!”
He and Donnelly stood in the square until the last kid disappeared.
“You do this often?” Ty asked as they walked back toward Admin Block, the streets now full of people shouting out greetings to each other.
Donnelly’s stare weighed on him through the lenses of his sunglasses, and Ty wished he had his own aviators to deflect. Donnelly stared for so long that Ty didn’t think he’d respond. Then he turned away and muttered, “A few times a week.”
“And what were you talking to them about?”
Donnelly chewed on his bottom lip before answering. “A bunch of things: how school is going, how their health is, their family. I like to check in and make sure any concerns are being taken care of.”
“Is it always the same group of kids?”
“Do you ever stop asking questions?”
Ty let a grin spread across his lips. “I’m a journalist. Asking questions is what I do.”
Donnelly grunted and fell silent for a moment before answering. “I take different routes through the camp, so it’s more like I rotate through the kids.”
A crackle interrupted before Ty could ask his next question. “Alpha-Romeo-1, this is Alpha-Romeo-12, message, over.”
Donnelly dug a handheld radio out of his pack. “Alpha-Romeo-12, this is Alpha-Romeo-1. Send, over.”
“This is Alpha-Romeo-12. There’s been a break-in at the health clinic in C Block. Can you be on-site? Over.” The radio distorted the voice, but Ty managed to pick out Patsy’s Australian accent.
“Fuck,” Donnelly muttered before raising the radio to his mouth and pressing the Talk button. “This is Alpha-Romeo-1, affirmative. ETA ten minutes. Out.”
Donnelly took off at a jog, not bothering to put the radio back into his pack. Ty followed him, wishing he had Doug with him to film whatever it was they were heading into. “Does this happen often?” he asked as they ran.
“Only every other fucking week.” Donnelly took a sharp right.
How the hell Donnelly knew where they were or where they were going was a mystery to Ty. Every street was variations of the same patched-together shelters, opening suddenly onto little community courtyards filled with loitering people.
“What about security?”
“What about security?”
“Don’t you have security on these places?”
From the way Donnelly tilted his head at him, Ty was sure that Donnelly was throwing him some serious side-eye, and he was spared the sharp edge only by the sunglasses. Ty wasn’t surprised when Donnelly didn’t answer the question.
When they made it to the health clinic, a massive crowd of people already filled the small courtyard, most of them women with children of varying ages. They approached Patsy, who was talking with a couple of uniformed men, and a woman wearing a Médecins Sans Frontières vest.
“What happened here?” Donnelly approached, and everyone stepped aside—it was clear who was in charge. Ty hung back to observe and pulled out the notebook he’d had the foresight to grab when he left his tent this morning.
“The same fucking thing that happens every time, Cam.” The women in the Médecins Sans Frontières vest spoke with a heavy French accent.
“Angelique, I’m sorry.” Donnelly was calm and sincere but also resigned. “You know we don’t have the extra staff to man every station every night.”
“Right, and the fucking thieves aren’t idiots, you know. They can figure out the rotation schedule. You have to, I don’t know, randomize!” Angelique spoke with one hand on her hip, the other waving around to emphasize her point.
His jaw clenched, Donnelly turned to one of the uniformed men wearing a burgundy beret. “Sergeant?”
The officer nodded once but didn’t speak.
“How much did we lose this time?” Donnelly asked.
Angelique shook her head and headed for the concrete building. “These thieves are smart, I tell you! They only take what they know they can use, and . . .”
Ty didn’t follow them inside, instead debating whether he should borrow one of those radios to get Doug to come out here. Dozens of people stood or sat in a line that wound around the clearing. Some stared at him with curiosity. Others were hunched over, rocking back and forth, clutching a body part.
The weirdest thing was how eerily silent the place was. No people shouting, no animals braying. Nothing more than an occasional sniffle or a shuffle of feet against the dirt.
“You went on a run with Cam this morning, eh?”
Ty turned at Patsy’s question. “Yeah, it was . . . interesting.”
“Did he hand out sweets to the kids?”
“Yeah, that was unexpected. Didn’t fit the image I’d been building of him.”
Patsy chuckled, loud in the stillness of the yard. “He wasn’t always so . . . rough around the edges, you know.”
Ty cocked his head, his interest piqued. “You’ve worked with him for a long time?”
She eyed him, as if deciding how much she should share. Ty kept his expression innocent and waited out the awkward pause.
“Several years now. But Cam’s been around for ages. A bit of a legend, he is.”
“What made him so ‘rough around the edges’?”
She barked a laugh before casting her gaze around them. Then in a lowered voice, she said, “Have you seen this place? We’re all bound to end up rough around the edges. Cam’s fared better than most if you want my opinion. He’s lasted a hell of a lot longer than the vast majority of people who come out here.”
“And how long do most people spend in the field?” Ty asked.
Patsy seemed to ponder the question. “Let me put it this way: A lot of young folks come looking for glory. Only a handful become lifers.” She patted him on the shoulder before turning to join the others inside.
“Only a handful become lifers.” It sounded like a rarified goal. But at what cost?