Page 39 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

Ducking out from under his shyrdak, Poya stood, motionless, the better to look and listen.

A feeble early morning glow washed the interior with grainy, milky light.

With no windows, the yurt’s only source of natural illumination came from whatever leaked around the stove’s chimney which vented through a hole in the ceiling.

If the chimney was the center of a clock and the door was twelve, then his shyrdak was six.

Amu was at three and Bas at nine, because the left side of every yurt belonged to the women in a family.

Skirting the stove, he padded on stockinged feet toward the door, his footfalls making only the slightest shushing sounds on more patterned, deep red shyrdaks laid atop a bottom layer of thick felt.

The same kind of long rugs covered the yurt’s canvas walls.

Stacks of trunks and suitcases, doing double-duty as both insulation and furniture, were pushed against the yurt’s walls.

Crossing to the door, he carefully lowered himself onto a very large, very old trunk, but the thing still protested with a small, creaking squee .

Wincing at the noise, he froze. Amu’s breathing didn’t change, but Bas’s snores hitched for a brief second.

The old woman snuffled, grunted. A beat passed and then another… and then her snores started up again.

You’re worrying for nothing. He worked his feet into the boots. Even if they wake up, they won’t try to stop you going for water. It’s what you do every morning.

What he didn’t want was for them to question why he left so early, almost two hours before anyone else stirred.

Pulling a flashlight from a neat array of tools spread upon a steamer trunk, he slipped that into a carry-sling which hung from his belt on his left hip.

Then, lifting his wool coat from a nail, he shoved his arms into the sleeves, buttoned up, then squared a Russian-style fur-lined hat on his head.

After snapping the ear flaps together under his chin, he wound a long scarf over his mouth.

As he did, his gaze slid, as it invariably did, to Amu’s Kalashnikov, which hung to the left of the door.

He ached to take the rifle. In fact, about three weeks ago, Amu had asked, almost casually, if Poya would like to learn how to shoot. Of course, Poya agreed. Amu was pleasantly surprised at how quickly Poya learned how to handle the weapon.

You have very good aim, boy, Amu said. A steady hand.

Poya only smiled. No need to tell Amu that this wasn’t, as the Americans would say, his first rodeo. Baba had trained him well: When you’ve run out of options, Poya, you need to be able to pull that trigger.

He hadn’t needed to, yet. There was, however, a first time for everything.

He knew Amu wouldn’t mind if he took the weapon.

The clan’s mountain spring was over two miles away.

Predators occasionally made their way down-mountain.

For a hungry leopard or wolf pack, a child on his or her own made for good eating.

But if Amu woke and found Poya and the rifle gone hours earlier than the other children set off, Poya would be asked questions he didn’t want to answer.

No point taking chances unless he absolutely must.

When the time came, though, and he had to run, Amu’s rifle was coming with him.

He felt a little bad about that. Yes, Amu had bought him, but the man wasn’t an awful person.

He cared for his mother; he worried about the clan.

The fact that he’d taken Poya out to shoot suggested he wanted Poya to learn how to be his son.

The thing was, Poya knew that would change. When it did, Amu’s largesse would evaporate. Poya would be lucky if Amu didn’t shoot him outright.

You are Poya Durrani . He slid a weighty claw hammer he hoped he would never have to use into his right coat pocket. You are Poya. Remember that.

Then he slipped on cat’s feet from the yurt, and into the cold.