The morning the plane was ready, the sun didn't rise with color. Just a gray wash in the sky, like
even the heavens weren't sure.
Our sisters wore the cleanest clothes we had, still too thin, too small. The younger one clutched
a doll made of rags. She hadn't spoken in two days.
Mr. Kalumba checked the engine again. He didn't say much. Neither did we.
"We'll be back before sunset," he told us, avoiding our eyes.
"Take them to a clinic," I said. "Or a police station. Anywhere with people."
"We'll find someone who'll listen," he promised, though his voice wasn't steady.
We helped lift the girls into the back seat. I kissed the younger one on the forehead. She didn't
flinch, but her skin was cold.
"You'll be safe soon," my brother whispered. "There's a place waiting for you. Remember what
Mama said."
The engine coughed, choked, and then came to life like an old heart refusing to die.
The propeller spun.
The wheels creaked forward.
And then, the plane rose.
For the first time in our lives, something we hoped for left the ground.
Hours passed. The sun crept high. Then lower.
We waited, sitting in silence under the same tree. When the plane returned, the light was
already fading.
Kalumba climbed out alone.
He looked… older.
"They're safe?" I asked.
"Where are they?" my brother said.
He didn't answer right away. He sat down. Removed his cap.
"We landed near a hospital," he said. "I carried them in. Told them everything. They asked for
names. Papers. I had nothing."
"So?"
"They wouldn't take them. Said I was just dumping street kids."
"So what happened?" I said, voice rising.
"I left them there anyway," he said, looking at his hands. "I had to. I had to come back for you."
We didn't speak after that. Just nodded. Just walked toward the plane.
"We go now," my brother said.
"There's not enough light," Kalumba said.
"Then we fly in the dark."