beneath the skin

Amidst the tumult of flying limbs and squalling laughter, I heard one thing as we collapsed to the street. Caban, somewhere beneath me in the pile of bodies, shouting, "Lydia!" as we fell. He called Em by the name of his sister, one of two he refers to as his baby sisters. I have gleaned their names: Lydia and Jules, but nothing more about them. He spoke to me a great deal about the Agrifields and his start in space, but nothing of what has become of them. Do they live with his wealthy, distant brother? Do they work the fields still? There are no pictures of them in his room, though I can see them, as cheerful and brown and steady as him. Perhaps he has no photos, or perhaps like me, he keeps them hidden.



Caban loves children. Once while waiting for a contact we watched a pickpocket work his way through a crowd, fumbling and nearly getting caught twice, rewarded with a pittance each time. Caban called him over and counted out enough for a meal and a pair of shoes, both of which the child needed, and said, "Give it up, kid. You're no good." He grinned at us as the boy skittered away.



Back in the bar, Caban lifted up his shirt to reveal the pale skin over his chest and thin stomach. It was marred by three circles: a line of automatic fire had sprayed diagonally across him. It sent a bullet into his flesh, one just above his right hip, another a few centimeters over his bellybutton, and a third near the bottom of his ribcage.



I've known this open, happy man for over a year now, and it seems I hardly know him at all.