Ship of Souls

entrance of the park, so Nyla leads us straight to the park’s edge. A cast-iron fence topped with sharp spikes is meant to keep people out of the park, but there are gaps in the fence that give us access to the busy street. In two or three places, the iron bars have been twisted apart by cars that jumped the curb. Nyla rushes ahead of me and Keem and flags down a gypsy cab. A yellow cab would never stop for kids like us, but gypsy cab drivers in this city have seen it all, and before long we pull up in front of Nyla’s brownstone. Keem reaches into his back pocket, but before he can pull out his wallet, Nyla flings a ten at the driver and tells Keem to bring me over to the basement door. “I’ll come down and open it from the inside,” she says before dashing up the stairs and letting herself in the front door.
    In less than a minute Nyla opens the black iron grate under the stoop and lets us into her home. Keem’s eyes open as wide as mine as he carries me down a long hallway and into a family room that looks like something out of an IKEA catalogue. Nyla’s house is nice . I’m hoping I don’t drip blood all over the place. I’m also hoping the bird will be able to find me here. “I’ve got to get back to the park,” I mutter between my clenched teeth.
    “Wait here. I’ll go get my mom.” Over her shoulder Nyla says, “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.” She steps into the hallway and presses an intercom button on the wall. “Mom?”
    Keem peeks inside the mini fridge tucked under the bar, but like me, he’s afraid to touch anything. “You met her mom before?”
    “No.” Why would he think that? “You?”
    Keem shakes his head and wanders over to the entertainment center, which includes a flat-screen television that practically covers the entire wall. Keem whistles with appreciation. “Imagine watching the game in here!”
    “Mom!” Nyla tries the intercom one more time, and then goes over to the foot of the stairs and hollers, “MOM!”
    Footsteps overhead tell us that Nyla’s mother is home after all. “Nyla? Why are you yelling like that?”
    Nyla changes her tone of voice. “Hey, Sachi. Listen—I need a favor.”
    We hear the soft slap of slippers as Nyla’s mother comes downstairs. “What kind of favor?”
    “A friend of mine got hurt in the park. I need you to fix him up.”
    “What happened?”
    Keem frowns and looks at me. Will Nyla tell her mother the truth?
    “He—uh—we think he stepped on an old trap. You know those illegal traps they use to catch bears and stuff. Tore his ankle up pretty bad.”
    The pause that follows is long enough for us to know that Nyla’s mother isn’t buying that explanation. “Why would there be a metal trap in the park? And why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”
    Nyla sighs impatiently. “He doesn’t have health insurance, OK? Listen, Sachi, I don’t have time to chat right now. He’s in a lot of pain.”
    There is another pause, and Keem and I have to strain our ears to hear what’s said next. “You know I lost my license. Why are you doing this, Nyla?”
    “Because I have no choice. He’s just a kid, and he needs your help. You owe me, Sachi. You know you do.”
    Nyla’s mother says nothing for a long moment. Finally she says, “Where is he?”
    Nyla leads her mother down the hallway and into the family room. I shift on my barstool and try not to look too pathetic. Keem stands next to me, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his hoodie.
    “This is Keem, and this is D. His left ankle’s pretty messed up. You guys, this is my stepmother, Sachi.”
    “I’m your stepmother now, am I? You called me ‘Mom’ a moment ago.”
    “Relax, Sachi. It’s just easier this way. I don’t have time to explain our sordid family history.”
    I wouldn’t mind hearing that story, and judging from the look on Keem’s face, he wants to hear it, too. Sachi is a pretty Asian woman. She’s about Nyla’s height, and she has bobbed black hair that refuses to stay tucked behind her ear.
    To Nyla she says, “Get me some gloves.”
    Nyla goes around the bar and opens a couple of drawers before returning with a pair of latex gloves. Sachi rolls up my pant leg and gently unwinds the makeshift bandage. I wince as air pours over the gaping wound. Sachi purses her lips and peers at my ankle. “This was no trap. An animal did this.” She frowns and begins pulling off the tight plastic gloves she just put on. “He’ll