BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

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THURSDAY
07.11.1996
DORIAN

               We enter Angela's Grocery with a chime of the bell above the door. If this was located in Upper Halsett, it'd be called Angela's Caribbean Grocery but here that's redundant.

Isaiah has been quiet since we left his street. Not that I expect anything more. His neighbour, Tamila, insisted we stayed for a cup of tea and I think Isaiah burnt out all his energy thanking her over and over, which is why I suggested we buy some food so he can have at least one proper meal this week.

I grab a metal basket and pick out onions and root vegetables for chicken soup (soup is a comforting food, right?). Isaiah walks like a zombie at my side before he freezes at the end of the vegetable aisle and stares vaguely ahead. He looks even worse than he did at the motel.

Under the maelstrom of worry that hasn't settled once since the ruinous call yesterday (to think it was only yesterday morning that I woke up in his bed), a silver lining glimmers. Isaiah lives most of his life reducing himself to a polite smile and good manners, and the fact that he doesn't feel a need to play the part for me caresses me like the ghost of a hug, a hint that perhaps our friendship can still be resuscitated.

Realising he's not moving anywhere, I make a tour around the shop alone. When I'm at the till with the majority of our groceries bagged, panic strikes: what if he's not moving because he can't, because he's had a flare and is in such agony blinking would have him sobbing?

But just as I swivel around, the door swings open and Isaiah looks up with no more caution than normal.

It's obvious he recognises the man who enters just as the man recognises him. Isaiah's eyes are no longer glossed; they're sharper than I may ever have seen.

The man lumbers over the threshold as his short eyebrows shoot up. 'The prodigal son returns.' Mockery is so thick in his words I know he has already forgotten what he came in for.

His eyes flit to me and narrow. He doesn't recognise me but it's his lack of recognition that means he knows exactly who I am.

He sneers at Isaiah. 'Yous ain't 'lowed to shop here.'

'Leave him alone, Bad. Him madda's just died.'

All three of us round on the man behind the register. His name tag reads Nadeem. Without looking up, he scans my toast so I can pack it on top of my shopping and asks how I'd like to pay. He's etched with boredom so that, despite looking our age, he gives the impression of someone who's lived far too long.

As I hand him the cash, he speaks past me. 'You got kids an' ting. When you gonna act grown? 'Sides, tis my auntie shop, not yours. You ain't get to kick out her paying customers.'

Bad sucks his teeth but the haughtiness is gone. 'Whatever.' Posture hunching, he slugs toward the swing door to get to the back. 'Let the batty boy do what him like.'

Isaiah strides after him, so quickly that Bad can't properly turn around before Isaiah's fist collides with the side of his face.

They both stumble. Bad nearly falls through the swing door before he finds his balance and clutches his cheek. Isaiah sways in the way that means white pain blinds him for a moment and when he reorients with gravity, he shoves the man again.

'Kill me then. Go on.'

Bad is so stunned, he doesn't even resist when Isaiah shoves him once more. Isaiah raises his hands to invite a counter-attack but when none strike, he sucks his teeth.