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full-time.”
    I closed my eyes and sighed slowly, feeling the last of my hope evaporate. The chair clattered as I pushed it away. The policeman said, “ Ei! The report costs ten dollars!” Again he sneezed. I stepped into the evening. “Who do you think you are, eh? This is the process in our country!”
    The traffic had eased, and I walked intentionally slowly. I was simultaneously thinking about if the money was truly lost—if I had forgotten some possible solution—and assessing what that loss would mean: immediate concerns, of food and rent, mixed with a broader, numbing anxiety that I could not place and that pervaded every possible future I could imagine. It became too much. I stopped thinking. From the outside for once the house seemed settled. Its light spilled into the courtyard, making the mud glow orange. Jose was wiping down the music system with a white cloth. “ Ça va , Anjan?” He looked up, his expression tender.
    â€œ Très bien , Jose.”
    Nana had sprayed my room with mosquito repellent, as a favor. But I felt nauseous inside. Squatting in the corridor I waited for the smell to leave, and I felt my neck where the robber’s nail had pierced the skin. The wound was inflamed; it hurt to the touch.
    Only when I lay in bed and looked at the overhead wooden beam did I feel the full horror. The scene of the taxi kept resurfacing. I spent hours picturing how I had entered the taxi. If only I had noticed how strangely the passengers had squeezed. The driver’s smile now seemed too friendly. I regretted that I had felt pity. I despised my good intentions. In the last visions just before I fell asleep I invented new scenarios that had me catch the driver unawares and beat him up. I seemed strong. And now I was able to hold a gun against his head.
    It was early morning when I called Mossi, the journalist. I had not told Nana or Jose, and even to Mossi the words did not come out: “Two thousand six hundred and fifty dollars.” The shock was still present. The crime had been like a violation that made me, the victim, feel ashamed that it had happened—it was as though not only my body but also my experience, memories and mind had been sullied.
    I decided to press on with my journalism plans. The decision didn’t require much thought: I had not prepared for any other kind of commerce, and I needed money. There was no time to dally now—I felt I should act, and that this would somehow soothe the growing anguish.
    When I told Mossi I’d had trouble he only said, “What do you need?” I was grateful for his discretion. I said I needed to find a story, something I could sell quickly. He paused, then said, “I’m interviewing a drug manufacturer. About bird flu. Don’t tell anyone, it’s hot-hot. He’s a fabulous man, a real magnate from India. Maybe you’ll get along.” I had expected him at best to give me a second-rate lead. This was a generous offer.
    I dressed in a hurry and ran water through my hair. And now the house seemed lively. Metal scrubbed dishes. Flames crackled. A bristled broom scratched cement. The neighbor’s chicken clucked in the yard. Bébé Rhéma gurgled on Nana’s hip. The baby’s nose dripped; Nana pinched out the mucus between her thumb and forefinger and flicked it to the ground.
    At my request Corinthian came to the taxi station and had a word with the driver. “I’ll need to be back in the evening,” I said to Corinthian. “May God bless you,” was his answer. He promised to come get me. It felt comforting to shake his hand. And everyone in the taxi saw that I was friends with the pastor.
    Mossi was outside the café, carrying a worn-leather bag, heavy with papers. He had brought a range of pens as well: blue, red, green. “Journalism is like art,” he said. “Sometimes even these colors are not enough.” For Mossi had his proper