Late that night, he sat at the bend of the river, the same place where she had once confessed her dreams of “small and big.” He clenched his fists against his knees, the water rushing dark beside him. “I’m coming for you, Kat,” he whispered into the night. “I don’t care where you are. I don’t care who he is. I’m coming.”
In Africa, Katrina woke to the sound of drums—but this time, they did not feel like celebration. They were slow, deliberate, almost ominous, echoing through the night like a warning. Lemayan slept beside her, his hand heavy on her wrist, as if even in dreams he needed to remind her of his claim. She stared at the ceiling, her body stiff, her breath shallow. The feeling was unmistakable now. She was being watched. Not just by strangers in the shadows. Not just by curious villagers. By fate itself. And fate, she realized with a chill, was no longer on her side.
The decision, when it came, was less a choice than a surrender. Eddie could no longer endure the silence of Spokane, the pitying looks from neighbors, the way the church bells seemed to mock him each Sunday morning. The arbor still stood in his father’s garage, its beams gathering dust, a monument to what would never be. Every time he saw it, rage and sorrow knotted in his chest until he thought he might choke. So, he booked a ticket.
He didn’t tell his parents. He didn’t tell the pastor. He didn’t even tell his closest friends. He simply packed a bag, tucked the printed report about Lemayan into the side pocket, and drove to the airport before dawn. The streets were empty, the city asleep, and as he passed the bend in the river one last time, he whispered into the dark, “Wait for me.”
The flight was endless. A maiden flight. Hours blurred together in the drone of engines, the flicker of movies no one really watched, the restless shift of bodies in cramped seats. Eddie stared out the window, watching the ocean roll beneath him, imagining Katrina somewhere across it, maybe laughing, maybe crying, maybe already regretting everything. His mind spun with questions that had no answers.
When the plane finally descended into Nairobi, the heat struck him like a wall. The air was thick, heavy with spice and smoke and the tang of diesel. The streets outside the airport pulsed with life—vendors shouting, buses weaving, horns blaring. For a moment, Eddie felt swallowed whole by a world too vast, too loud, too different. But then he remembered her. And the fear became fuel.
He checked into a modest hotel near the city center. That evening, he pulled out the report again, spreading it across the small desk. The words stared back: ties to militia groups. unverified. He traced the letters with his finger, imagining Katrina trapped in a world she couldn’t escape, surrounded by men he didn’t trust. He had to find her. But where to begin?
The answer came sooner than he expected. In the lobby the next morning, he overheard a conversation between two travelers—aid workers, judging by their badges. They spoke of a village to the south, where foreign consultants had recently been spotted working with local leaders. Eddie’s pulse quickened. It was a thread, thin and frayed, but enough to follow.
He rented a car, old and temperamental, its windows streaked with dust. With a map spread across the passenger seat, he began the long drive out of Nairobi. The city gave way to suburbs, then to wide stretches of savannah. Herds of cattle moved like shadows across the fields, guided by boys with staffs taller than themselves. The horizon seemed endless, the sky so vast it made him dizzy. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like a test.
As the sun sank low, painting the world in gold and crimson, Eddie pulled off the road and sat on the hood of the car. The air was alive with insects, the distant call of animals he couldn’t name. For the first time since Katrina left, he allowed himself to say the words aloud: “I don’t just want you back. I need you back.” The savannah swallowed his voice, but he felt lighter for having spoken it.
Meanwhile, in the village, Katrina felt the shift in the air. The drums were louder that night, the men’s voices sharper. Lemayan had returned from another of his unexplained absences, his face hard, his eyes gleaming. He took her hand roughly, pulling her into the firelight as if to display her. The people cheered, but Katrina’s heart sank. And somewhere out on the plains, Eddie was drawing closer, pulled not just by love but by something darker—an unshakable sense that he was running out of time.
The road to the village grew rougher the farther Eddie drove. Asphalt gave way to gravel, gravel to dirt, until each mile was a battle against ruts and stones. Dust rose in thick plumes behind the car, coating his arms, his throat, his thoughts. By the time he stopped at a small roadside market to ask directions, he looked like he’d walked through a storm.
The vendors eyed him curiously. A stranger, alone, pale against the ochre earth. He bought a bottle of water, offered a few bills, and asked in a low voice, “The Maasai village—south of here. Do you know it?” An old man pointed with his staff, his eyes narrowing. “Not a place for outsiders. Dangerous now.”
In Africa, Katrina woke to the sound of drums—but this time, they did not feel like celebration. They were slow, deliberate, almost ominous, echoing through the night like a warning. Lemayan slept beside her, his hand heavy on her wrist, as if even in dreams he needed to remind her of his claim. She stared at the ceiling, her body stiff, her breath shallow. The feeling was unmistakable now. She was being watched. Not just by strangers in the shadows. Not just by curious villagers. By fate itself. And fate, she realized with a chill, was no longer on her side.
The decision, when it came, was less a choice than a surrender. Eddie could no longer endure the silence of Spokane, the pitying looks from neighbors, the way the church bells seemed to mock him each Sunday morning. The arbor still stood in his father’s garage, its beams gathering dust, a monument to what would never be. Every time he saw it, rage and sorrow knotted in his chest until he thought he might choke. So, he booked a ticket.
He didn’t tell his parents. He didn’t tell the pastor. He didn’t even tell his closest friends. He simply packed a bag, tucked the printed report about Lemayan into the side pocket, and drove to the airport before dawn. The streets were empty, the city asleep, and as he passed the bend in the river one last time, he whispered into the dark, “Wait for me.”
The flight was endless. A maiden flight. Hours blurred together in the drone of engines, the flicker of movies no one really watched, the restless shift of bodies in cramped seats. Eddie stared out the window, watching the ocean roll beneath him, imagining Katrina somewhere across it, maybe laughing, maybe crying, maybe already regretting everything. His mind spun with questions that had no answers.
When the plane finally descended into Nairobi, the heat struck him like a wall. The air was thick, heavy with spice and smoke and the tang of diesel. The streets outside the airport pulsed with life—vendors shouting, buses weaving, horns blaring. For a moment, Eddie felt swallowed whole by a world too vast, too loud, too different. But then he remembered her. And the fear became fuel.
He checked into a modest hotel near the city center. That evening, he pulled out the report again, spreading it across the small desk. The words stared back: ties to militia groups. unverified. He traced the letters with his finger, imagining Katrina trapped in a world she couldn’t escape, surrounded by men he didn’t trust. He had to find her. But where to begin?
The answer came sooner than he expected. In the lobby the next morning, he overheard a conversation between two travelers—aid workers, judging by their badges. They spoke of a village to the south, where foreign consultants had recently been spotted working with local leaders. Eddie’s pulse quickened. It was a thread, thin and frayed, but enough to follow.
He rented a car, old and temperamental, its windows streaked with dust. With a map spread across the passenger seat, he began the long drive out of Nairobi. The city gave way to suburbs, then to wide stretches of savannah. Herds of cattle moved like shadows across the fields, guided by boys with staffs taller than themselves. The horizon seemed endless, the sky so vast it made him dizzy. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like a test.
As the sun sank low, painting the world in gold and crimson, Eddie pulled off the road and sat on the hood of the car. The air was alive with insects, the distant call of animals he couldn’t name. For the first time since Katrina left, he allowed himself to say the words aloud: “I don’t just want you back. I need you back.” The savannah swallowed his voice, but he felt lighter for having spoken it.
Meanwhile, in the village, Katrina felt the shift in the air. The drums were louder that night, the men’s voices sharper. Lemayan had returned from another of his unexplained absences, his face hard, his eyes gleaming. He took her hand roughly, pulling her into the firelight as if to display her. The people cheered, but Katrina’s heart sank. And somewhere out on the plains, Eddie was drawing closer, pulled not just by love but by something darker—an unshakable sense that he was running out of time.
The road to the village grew rougher the farther Eddie drove. Asphalt gave way to gravel, gravel to dirt, until each mile was a battle against ruts and stones. Dust rose in thick plumes behind the car, coating his arms, his throat, his thoughts. By the time he stopped at a small roadside market to ask directions, he looked like he’d walked through a storm.
The vendors eyed him curiously. A stranger, alone, pale against the ochre earth. He bought a bottle of water, offered a few bills, and asked in a low voice, “The Maasai village—south of here. Do you know it?” An old man pointed with his staff, his eyes narrowing. “Not a place for outsiders. Dangerous now.”
