K a k i L i m a J o s e p h L u
“Assalamualaikum, I called earlier,” the boy said, through his worn-out facemask. He was in the quiet part of Chinatown, past the smoky bars and perfumed cafes, in a hostel where rainwater seeped through the walls. The man had just gotten out of the shower and was pulling up his trousers before he heard the knock on the door. “Do you have a wristband?” the man said, as he dried off his long, dishevelled hair with a towel. The boy pulled up his sleeves, exposing his bare arms. No tattoos. No scars. No wristband. Only a black smudge from a railing somewhere. He stared at the hungry man’s beard, which fell limply from his chin like the falls of Sungai Siput. “I brought cup noodles, just in case,” the boy said. “From where?” “There was some in 7-E, already expired, I told the cashier I’d take care of it.” “As long as you didn’t steal,” the man said, stroking his beard. “OK, come inside.”
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