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“What delivery?”
He says something I don’t understand. I rest my forehead against the cool door and chew my lip. The Maulavi have no reason to be sly. Every other time they have come it’s been blatant, open, and obvious.
None of which calms my racing heart, but the logic of it stands. I take a shaky breath, push off the door, step back and turn the lock. The click sounds so incredibly loud. It’s not, of course, but it definitely seems to echo in my head.
I pull the door open and there is a young looking Urr’ki standing there. His eyes widen when he sees me and he takes a step back. He blinks twice then regains his composure. Behind him is a cart laden with something under a tarp of some kind.
“Delivery?” he asks, pointing at the cart.
“For who?” I ask, because it seems a good question. How do I know that this is for Bhoja.
“Bhoja,” he says.
“Oh, uhm, okay,” I say, pulling the door open and stepping to one side.
The young Urr’ki unties the tarp and pulls it aside. He grabs a piece of whatever it is on the cart, hefts it up onto his shoulder with a grunt, then carries it into the house. I stay out of the way, planning to let him do his job, but he heads for the stairs and I panic.
“No!” I yell.
He immediately stops with one foot on the stairs. He looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. He’s frowning, narrowing his eyes clearly suspicious as to what I am up to. Sweat beads my brow and I swear some crazy bird is in my stomach trying to get out.
“Delivery,” he says, motioning with his head over to the piece he is trying to take upstairs.
“Yes,” I say.Time. Buy time. Reason. Need a reason. Uhm…“Bhoja doesn’t want anyone up there.”
“Delivery,” he repeats.
Great. He has limited shared vocabulary with me. Let’s not make this any easier. Not like it was hard to begin with.
“Right,” I say. “Here. Put here.”
I walk over to the kitchen and point at a spot next to the cabinets. He watches me move, frowning the entire time, one foot remaining on the stairs. Shit. Come on. Back off, get off the stair. You cannot go upstairs.
And what am I going to do to stop him? Tackle him? Cause that’s going to work so well.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Bed. Delivery.”
“I know,” I say and jab my finger at the position I want him to put it. “Here.”
Now I’m getting frustrated which is beginning to override the panic.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Paid. Deliver.”
He takes another step up the stairs. Anger flashes white hot burning out the fear.
“I said no!” I yell. He stops, his head whipping around to look at me with wide eyes and an open mouth. I jab my finger at the spot. “Put it here.”
“But— ”
“No,” I say, shaking my head almost violently, “no but. Here.”
We glare at each other. I see it in his face before he speaks. He’s getting angry too and that is absolutely the worst thing that could happen. I’m mad, he’s mad, and we’re about to have one big ol’ mad fest which I have no doubt will end up with him going upstairs. At which point I am screwed.
“Paid,” he growls. “Delivery. Service.”
I bite down to keep a dozen smartass remarks from slipping out of my mouth before I can stop them. The rational part of my brain knows he’s young, paid to do a job, and is only trying to do it. Unfortunately, the not so rational part of my brain doesn’t care.
I cannot listen to the irrational part of me though. This isn’t the time to lose my temper or to further piss him off. All I’m getting done is making him dig his heels in and want to prove me wrong.
