Out Of The Rubble E-Book

Ronald Bagliere

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Inspired by real-life events, Ronald Bagliere's Out of the Rubble takes place in Kathmandu, Nepal, after the devastating earthquake of 2015.

When Binod and Sila Thapa lose their children to human traffickers, Binod's friend Mick Hanson and his girlfriend come to their aid. But with the devastation of the city and the authorities overwhelmed from the quake, finding the children seems impossible.

Living out of hotels and relatives' homes with nothing on their backs, Binod and Sila walk the streets in a desperate attempt to get back their children. Meanwhile, their friends devise a plan of their own to save the children, and delve into the dark world of seedy orphanages and unscrupulous bondsmen.

But where are the children, and can they find them before they are lost forever?

Leseprobe

OUT OF THE RUBBLE

HEARTS OF NEPAL BOOK 3

RONALD BAGLIERE

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Notes from the Author

1. April 25, 2015 — Kathmandu, Nepal

2. January 26, 2015, four months earlier — Kathmandu, Nepal

3. January 26, 2015— Kathmandu, Nepal

4. January 26, 2015— Kathmandu, Nepal

5. February 27, 2015

6. March 13, 2015

7. March 21, 2015

8. March 24, 2015 — Kathmandu and Lukla

9. April 3, 2015 — Kathmandu

10. April 11, 2015 — Kathmandu and Ichok

11. April 25, 2015

12. April 25, 2015

13. April 27, 2015

14. April 30, 2015

15. May 1, 2015

16. May 2, 2015

17. May 2, 2015

18. May 3, 2015

19. May 4, 2015

20. May 5, 2015

21. May 6, 2015

22. May 8, 2015

23. May 9, 2015

24. May 9, 2015

25. May 9, 2015

26. May 10, 2015

27. May 12, 2015

28. May 12, 2015

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Ronald Bagliere

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Charlee Bezilaa

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For the children of Nepal

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the support of my life partner, Linda Ortola, and my writing community here in Upstate New York. The community here is so supportive of writers and an invaluable source of encouragement, information and insights. Notably, is the support I received from the Romance Writers of America chapter of Central New York and my critique group, who provided comments and suggestions. The writers and authors in them are too many to count here, but I want to shine a light on a few of them as well as my two friends in Nepal who have vetted the writing to keep it as accurate as possible. First, a huge thanks to Martin Meiss, Mary Fancher, Debra Panebianco, Paul Baxter, Millisa Morrow and Julie Stuetzle for their comments and suggestions. To Binod and Sila Thapa, who lent their names for two of the major characters, and took the time to review sections of the book for me regarding Nepali culture and family life, I owe you so much more than words can say. For my editor, Charlee Bezilla, you have my gratitude for going through the manuscript and correcting all my little faux pas, and you additional suggestions to bring out the character’s voices were so spot-on. And finally, to my beta readers; Sandra Jackson and Jann Block, thank you for taking the time to read and giving me your impressions.

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

Earthquakes happen all around the world. They’re one of the most powerful destructive forces on Earth. When they happen in Third World countries, they’re cataclysmic. The earthquakes that occurred in Nepal in 2015 left the country in tatters. They were both magnitude 7-plus quakes, the first of which (MW 7.8) occurred in the Gorkha District on April 25, followed by two aftershocks of MW 6.9 and MW 6.7. The second quake occurred on May 12, in the Sindhupalchowk District (MW 7.3), which is approximately eighty miles east of the first quake. Combined, these quakes destroyed 544,320 buildings and homes and took the lives of 8,790 Nepalis, orphaning uncounted children. Let that sink in a moment.

Now imagine yourself as a child faced with the loss of your parents and your entire family in this impoverished nation, living in a small, remote village in the mountains. Or perhaps you’re living in the aging city of Kathmandu, whose buildings have collapsed, and you’re alone, hungry, and scared. You don’t know who to trust, where to go, or when the next tremor will rip the rest of your life away. You’re scraping by, begging for handouts, when suddenly men come up to you, promising to take care of you, give you shelter and food, and help you find your parents. What do you do? Stay, and go silently into the night, or take a chance and go with them?

This is your choice, and so you make the decision to trust them, only to realize too late that their promises are empty lies and you’re trapped in a dark world where every day is a lesson in survival, and getting by means closing your eyes and letting yourself be raped, beaten, or enslaved, with no escape unless by some miracle a hand reaches out and pulls you back.

When I was there in 2018 on a charity mission for the Sherpa, I witnessed the aftermath of these quakes in Kathmandu and in the mountains. You don’t have to look far to find children fending for themselves in the streets of Kathmandu or living in unsafe buildings sitting on teetering foundations in the mountains. In spite of this, there are Angels out there who work the borders and cities to return these lost children to their families or to find them safe havens in new homes.

This novel attempts to shine a small light on the network of those on the front lines who work to curb the trafficking in this tiny country by those who would profit from man’s inhumanity toward man. It also aims to show the resiliency of the Nepali people in the face of a national catastrophe. Sadly, not every home and shrine will be rebuilt, not every family will be restored, and not every Angel will succeed in saving a lost child, but like the story of the ridiculed man attempting to throw a thousand beached starfish back in the ocean:

To the starfish in his hand, it matters.

Namaste,

NOTHING IS PROMISED

The farmer grows the corn, but the bear eats it.

–Nepali Proverb

1

APRIL 25, 2015 — KATHMANDU, NEPAL

It’s a bright February morning as Mick weaves his rental car through snarled traffic on Ring Road. Beside him is Alan Forrester, High Trails’ new expedition coordinator. They’ve just flown in from Pokhara for a logistics meeting with their new employee, Lincoln Webber and High Trails’ Everest Base Camp guide, Binod Thapa. As Mick drives past the incessant beeping of darting vehicles, he glances at Alan, who’s gawking out the window at the busy street lined with mobs of Nepalis. Sidewalk cafes put out pungent garlic and curry aromas, and a chorus of squawking radios blare Nepali music.

Mick looks at his watch, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Alan clutch his armrest. It’s Alan’s first tour of Nepal, and from the look of it, he’s having a hard time getting his legs under him. “You’ll get used to it,” Mick says. “When we get there, we’ll head in for the meeting, then get our room after. You hungry?”

“I could eat, I suppose,” Alan says as they continue through the urban sprawl.

It’s 7:35 a.m. Barring a major traffic jam, they’ll arrive at the Crown Plaza Hotel for their meeting at 8:00. They’re only a few minutes late. Not bad, considering their flight ran thirty minutes behind. He steers around a wheezing bus, zips down the road of failing macadam, and ten minutes later, he’s turning onto Swayamblu Circle Road, heading for the hotel. “So, looking forward to getting up in the mountains?”

“I am,” Alan says. He’s quiet a moment and awkward silence permeates the space between them. Finally, he says, “I thought I knew traffic. But this….” He shakes his head.

“Yeah, it’s a bit crazy,” Mick answers as the hotel comes into view. He wends his way around a stopped car in the middle of the street. “You get used to it.”

“I suppose,” Alan says, but there’s no conviction in his tone.

Mick speeds up and a minute later, they’re turning into a drive flanking the five-story hotel. As he passes fragrant raised beds of edelweiss, anemones, and poppies, he hunts for a place to park. Binod’s motorbike is already here, parked in the large sweeping lot around the portico. Mick cocks a brow. Binod actually made it here ahead of him.

Five minutes later they’re striding down the sidewalk to the front doors. The Plaza’s sweeping masonry walls, prominent red metal roofs, and blue-tinted windows reflect the standard of luxury for Kathmandu’s tourists. It’s also the unofficial launching point for High Trails’ Everest expeditions, not to mention that it’s co-managed by Palisha Kc. She’s a tiny, compact woman with vibrant brown eyes and a fetching smile. If there were any woman he could ever settle down with, it would be her. But she comes from a traditional Nepali family who frowns on taking up with foreigners. The fact that she’s a widow, who by custom should be home and out of sight, only makes things worse. It leaves him in a heart-rending limbo of bottled-up love that should never be acted upon.

He follows Alan into the bright, airy interior and gestures to the broad hallway left of the reception desk. But his gaze strays to the office door behind the desk. It’s open, but she’s not inside. They cross a pale-blue oriental carpet and turn down the hall, passing muted tan walls. A coffered ceiling with hanging lights of polished brass extends down the corridor. The murmuring of a sanxian guitar, piped in from somewhere above, kisses his ears. At the end of the hall, an alcove leads to the hotel café. They stride past a couple of guests and go in. Binod and Lincoln Webber are sitting at a table by a window. They look up as he walks toward them.

“Hey, Binod,” Mick says, glancing at his watch. “You’re early. What the hell? Gonna turn into a regular American if you keep this up.” He turns to Alan, explaining the concept of Nepali standard time, then introduces himself to Lincoln.

Lincoln pushes back from the table along with Binod and stands. The new American recruit Binod has spoken for is a tall redhead with a short-cropped beard and mustache. Above his deep blue eyes is a faint sickle-shaped scar that dives into a mop of curly hair. Under the collar of Lincoln’s white cotton tapālan is a hint of a tattoo. Lincoln puts his hand out, and judging from his grip, Mick guesses he works out.

They all sit and pull menus toward them as a waiter comes around with a carafe of tea. As the man pours for them, he looks to Binod first. “What can I get for you?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” he says.

Mick knits his brow. “You? Not hungry? You sick or something?” He reaches across the table toward Binod. “Give me your wrist. I want to check for a pulse.”

Binod looks at him as if he’s not sure what to say. Mick grins and turns to Alan. “My friend has a bottomless stomach. Once, when we were at a teahouse on the Circuit, I think it was Jomsom…Jomsom, right, Binod?”

They both know where this is going. It’s a joke between them he tells whenever he has a chance. Binod rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mick says. “Anyway, we just got off a fourteen-hour hike and you know meals on the Circuit, not a lot on the plate, so we’re pretty hungry. Now I can put away my fair share, but Binod, he keeps going after I’m done. After his fifth helping, the owner, who’s been watching his profits disappear, comes to our table and tells Binod if he makes that his last trip, our meal’s on the house.”

“I think you mistaken, Mick-ji. That was you,” Binod says with a lilt in his voice.

Lincoln sits back, chuckling. Alan just grins. After the laughter settles down, Lincoln tags Binod on the arm. “You’ve been holding out on me, Bud.”

Binod turns to Lincoln with a quizzical look on his face. “Holding out?”

“Yeah, keeping secrets,” Lincoln says as the waiter stands by, waiting patiently.

Mick orders a plate of fried potatoes and onions, a stack of cakes with honey, and a double helping of toast. Lincoln, who’s studying his menu, points to the selection of appetizers on the first page. “The Dehli Chaat—is made with dahi vada or dahi bhalla?” he asks in Nepali.

“Dahi bhalla,” the waiter answers.

Lincoln nods. “Okay. I take order of that. Extra hot chili, lots onions. Plain yogurt.”

The waiter turns to Alan, who takes a last look at his menu. Frowning, he points to a picture of a breakfast entree of porridge, cakes, and eggs. “I’ll have that.” He passes the menu to the waiter, then suddenly puts his hand up. “You have toast and marmalade here?”

The waiter stares back, confused. “Marmalade?”

“Yes,” Alan says. “It’s like jam. Fruit preserves with peels.”

The waiter glances at Mick with a hopeful look for help.

“Phal sanrakshit karata hai,” Mick says.

The waiter nods, then beams back at Alan. “Oh, yes, we have.”

Alan smiles. “Good. I’ll have another cup of whatever you’re calling tea,” he adds, raising his mug.

After the waiter leaves, Mick clears his throat, claps his hands, and eyes Lincoln. “Okay, you’re probably wondering why we’re not at a High Trails office, right?”

“Binod filled me in; something about liking to keep things light and friendly,” Lincoln says, breaking back into English. He sits back with one arm on the table, panning the room.

Mick considers the American a moment. The guy is watchful, and there’s a guarded air about him, as if he’s hiding something. But Binod is vouching for him, and it doesn’t hurt the guy’s adoctor. Could come in handy down the road, not to mention he has an Ama Dablam summit under his belt. The guy knows his stuff. Finally, he says, “So, tell me a little about yourself.”

“Not much to tell,” Lincoln says, then shrugs and takes a sip of tea. “When I lived in the States, I served in a fire department as a paramedic for a couple years, then went and got a degree in emergency medicine. Bounced around after that, working ERs until a friend of mine talked me into a bit of alpine climbing. Thought he was nuts ’til I did it. Two years later, we landed here.”

“I assume you went for Everest?” Alan says.

Lincoln sets his mug on the table, absently turns it around, and looks off. “That was the plan. Never got to it, though.”

“That’s too bad,” Alan says. “What happened?”

“Bunch of things.”

“So Ama Dablam was a training summit?” Mick asks.

Lincoln shrugs as the waiter brings more tea. “Sort of.”

When Mick looks up, he sees Palisha coming behind the waiter with their order. His heart thumps. “Namaste, Polly! How are you?” he says. He drinks in her beaming smile, the soft crinkles around her large brown eyes, and the slight tilt of her regal tan face. Her thick jet hair is pulled back with a floral pin, and a subtle scent of jasmine wafts around her.

“Namaste, Mick,” she says. She holds him in a knowing gaze before setting the platter of food on the table beside them.

For the first time, he notices the flower-print satin blouse hanging off her shoulders. The top button is undone and a thin gold necklace peeks out from underneath. “I looked for you when I came in, but you weren’t in your office.”

“No, I was busy in the kitchen,” she says. Her gaze strays past him. “Namaste. Hello, Binod. How are you?”

“I am very good, thank you,” he says, nodding politely. “And how are you?”

“I am very good also,” she replies, then looks to Alan and Lincoln. “Namaste, good morning.”

“Morning,” Lincoln and Alan say in unison. Lincoln adds, “Something smells good.”

“I hope so!” Palisha says, favoring them with a charming smile. “So, you are all staying with us?”

“Just Alan and myself,” Mick says. He picks up his mug and sips, then eyes Alan and Lincoln. “Palisha here co-manages the hotel. She’s the best hostess in all of Nepal, isn’t that right, Binod?”

“Oh, yes,” Binod says, flashing a broad grin.

Palisha waves off the compliment. “Do not listen to them. They are just looking for extras,” she says to Lincoln and Alan, then turns to the platter on the table beside her. She picks up the bowl of porridge. “So, who gets this?”

“That would be me,” Alan says, reaching to take the bowl from her.

“And the Dehli Chaat is mine,” Lincoln puts in.

Palisha passes their plates out as Mick unwraps his silverware. When everyone is served, she turns to him. “Can we talk over there a minute?”

“Sure.” He gets up and follows her out of earshot. “What’s up?”

“So, we will have dinner tonight, yes?”

“Of course!” He wonders why she has to ask.

“Good.” She peers around him, then leans in close, and in Nepali, whispers, “I have a gift for you that I think you’ll like.”

When she pulls back with an innocent smile, his body fizzes. The thought of sitting on the couch talking all snuggled up sends a wave of anticipation rushing through him. He tries to control himself, but it’s not easy. “Really?”

She nods. The way she’s looking at him is maddening.

“What time?”

She hesitates, looks around them again, then turns back and says, “Six, maybe?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Oh, one thing. My sink is clogged, so maybe you can fix it for me sometime this afternoon?”

“I’ll need tools.”

“No problem,” she says, slipping her key into his hand. “Go see Rajan downstairs. He will give you what you need.”

“I’ll head over right after we’re done here.”

“Okay, put your bags at the reception desk and I will have them taken up.” She backs away and waves to the rest of them. “Okay, I leave you to your meeting now.”

After she leaves, Mick digs into his breakfast. But he feels Lincoln’s furtive gaze flick at him from time to time. At length, he sits back and wipes his mouth. “So, Lincoln, where were we?”

”Ama Dablam,” Alan puts in. “What was that like? I heard it’s quite a climb.”

Lincoln takes a bite, swallows, and shrugs. “It wasn’t easy.”

Alan nods as he pours honey on his porridge. “When did you do it?”

Mick watches Lincoln’s face tighten and his gaze go inward. There’s more to this man than what I’ve been told.

Lincoln takes a bite, wipes his mouth, and says curtly, “2011.”

I don’t remember reading that in the resume. “You were on the mountain in 2011?”

Lincoln looks away, and it’s clear he isn’t comfortable with the direction this conversation is going.

Alan wrinkles his brow and sets his spoon down. “I heard there was a storm that year?”

Lincoln sips his tea. “Yup.”

Mick sits back, realizing the man was on the mountain when the storm hit. Shit. I wonder….

“Christ! That must’ve been a hell of a ride,” Alan says.

Lincoln’s expression darkens as he takes another sip of tea. “It was.”

Alan leans forward as Mick nudges the Brit’s leg under the table to give him a hint to shut up, but Alan pushes on. “Where were you at the time?”

Lincoln stiffens and sets his mug down. “Camp 3.”

Binod turns to Mick, and there’s an anxious look on the Nepali’s face.

Suddenly the air goes out of the room. It takes but a second for Mick to add things up. While most people know the story of Patterson, Kincaid, and Madden on Everest, not many know about the four men on Ama Dablam who were caught in the storm. One of them fell to his death and was more than likely a friend to the man across the table.

Alan’s glance sweeps over them as if he’s being left out on a secret. “What?”

Lincoln clears his throat and stares coldly at Alan. “Not what! Who! People died, okay? Can we please move on?”

“Yes, let’s,” says Mick. “We have a lot to cover for the upcoming season and next year, not to mention our next group, which will be here next week.”

After the meeting breaks up, Mick collects a pipe wrench, a plumbing snake, pipe dope, and a pair of pliers (probably more than he needs) from Rajan and heads to Palisha’s apartment. It’s just outside the old Chamati neighborhood near the Bishnumati River. As he drives, his thoughts fixate on the evening ahead and where things might lead. What started out five years ago as a casual friendship has moved into new territory and he’s unsure where it will go.

He turns onto Museum Marg and drives into the dense residential mishmash of two- and three-story masonry. There are no sidewalks here, just a string of railroad timber curbs laid down in front of the houses. Motorbikes weave back and forth ahead, beep-beeping incessantly in the stop-and-go mid-morning traffic. It’s heading toward noon and people are swarming in and out of houses or gathering in groups on street corners. The ubiquitous tang of the muddy river downwind mingles with the smoke of his cigar and the pungent odor trailing off the garbage truck ahead. He tosses his cigar in his coffee cup and rolls the window up, shutting out the stink.

Fifteen minutes later, the residential sprawl is behind him and he’s at a T- intersection, making a right. He follows the snaking brown river a half kilometer before making another right into the driveway of Riverside Apartments. The four-story L-shaped masonry and concrete building, built shortly after the 1934 quake, sits back from the road, flanked by a row of acacia and rhododendron. A Tibetan Cherry stands out front on a sheared lawn, its spindled and crooked branches laden with white blossoms. Hugging the front entrance is a bed of purple asters.

He parks out front. The lot is nearly empty this time of day; most of the tenants are at work. Grabbing his bag of tools, he hoofs it to the front door under a sun playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. The narrow lobby welcomes him into cool, deep shadows. As he pushes the call button for the elevator, he catches a whiff of ginger and faint Nepali music drifting down the hall. The elevator dings, and the door slides back. It’s a tight fit inside the claustrophobic car, but he endures it rather than climb the two flights of creaky metal stairs to the third floor.

Palisha’s apartment is to the left down the hall. He pulls her key out, walks to her door, and enters, taking in the subtle floral fragrance saturating the sunlit room. Shucking his boots at the door, he heads into her tiny galley kitchen with his tools. A plunger stands on the floor next to the sink cabinet and a bottle of dish soap and a dirty breakfast bowl, spoon, and cup sit by the sink above. He takes a look at the brown water lingering in the basin, considers a plan of action, and pulls the snake out, but first he needs to deal with the copious amount of tea he put down at his meeting.

As he unzips in the tiny bathroom off the kitchen next to the bedroom, he notices a clear plastic bottle on the vanity. It’s none of his business, but when he’s done, he picks it up and reads the label.

LVL Personal Lubricant.

He’s perplexed for a moment, but then it hits him. Of course she would. Men aren’t the only ones who think such things. He smiles, wondering if she thinks of him when she uses it. It’s an image he’s never considered before, and one he’s quite sure he won’t forget.

He should feel guilty for having such thoughts, for invading her intimate life, but he’s not a monk and the bottle was left out in plain sight, he tells himself. Setting it down, he heads back to the kitchen to take care of the stubborn drain. After five minutes of fighting with the snake, he decides the trap has to be taken apart, but for that he’ll need something to collect water in. He rummages around in the surrounding cabinets for a large pot, then gets back on the floor, digging sludge out of the U-shaped pipe with his finger. When he feels a faint tremor run through the building, he frowns and stops what he’s doing. Then another tremor comes, more like a jolt this time.

He jerks up, banging his head on the cabinet frame. The floor is shaking underneath him now. For a second he freezes, then he’s on his feet running to the living room. The walls are listing back and forth, the hanging tapestry fluttering wildly. A zigzagging crack is running down the exterior wall, and an ominous groan follows. The window shatters and a shower of glass bursts into the room.

Get out!

Stumbling into the hall, he races to the stairwell behind another tenant. The treads shift back and forth like a sieve sifting flour as he runs down. Dust and chunks of plaster rain from the ceiling. Another powerful jolt reels him sideways, throwing him into the railing. The Nepali in front of him tumbles down the stairs, hitting the landing with a thunk. Twenty feet below, the first floor yawns up at him. His breath catches. Something hurts. Coughing, he scrambles down into the mounting gray haze flooding the shaft. A loud bang jolts the floor above. The twisting steel staircase shivers below. Another explosion of shattering glass, and then a loud pop, pop, pop. Gripping the rail, he lurches ahead, descending the rocking treads to the landing. The fallen Nepali is struggling to his hands and knees. He pulls him up, sees a deep gash splitting the man’s brow. A stream of blood is running from it down the side of the Nepali’s narrow face. Draping the man’s arm over his shoulder, he darts ahead. Then another jolt rams the building, knocking him backward onto the stair. When he looks up, the exterior wall before him is peeling away. Sunlight pours in, revealing a rolling landscape outside. Thick dirty clouds blanket the Chamati neighborhood beyond. Birds are arcing wildly across the sky above it.

A voice in his head yells, Go, go, go! He pulls himself and the Nepali up. The man is dazed, dead weight under his arm as he rushes headlong down the faltering stairs, socked feet slipping and sliding. Then all at once, he’s outside, stumbling ahead breathlessly with the Nepali on the seesawing macadam. How he got here, he doesn’t remember, and he doesn’t care to think about it. Just get as far as he can into open space, away from the crumbling building.

People ahead are running every which way, calling out for each other, crying, screaming. Children are bawling. Then a booming thump hits the ground behind him, lifting his feet and sending him and the Nepali crashing to the ground. He half expects his life to end. But when the deathblow doesn’t come, he closes his eyes. Catching his breath, he finally rolls over, clambers to his hands and knees, and sucks another gulp of air into his burning lungs. Wiping his brow, he looks back. The end of the building is shorn off into a towering mishmash of brick and broken concrete. Underneath it somewhere is his rental car. As he stares at the destruction, he suddenly realizes the ground is still.

His heart thuds, and he waits for another jolt. When it doesn’t come, he sighs, and for the first time, realizes how fortunate he is. He glances at the Nepali beside him. The man is on his side panting and pushing himself up with one hand planted on the pavement. A lackluster gaze clouds the man’s dark brown eyes. His tan face and short black hair are chalked with gritty white dust and streaked with blood and sweat.

Mick waves a hand. “Lie back down,” he says in Nepali. “It’s okay.” With an effort, he gets up and sweeps his gaze over the eerie, silent world, absorbing the wreckage and the ruined land around him. On the other side of the river, a thick dirty haze hangs over the city, and here and there, plumes of smoke rise into a cloudless pale sky. To his right, the acacia and rhododendron are partially uprooted, listing every which way at sharp angles. The Tibetan Cherry out front is lying on its side, half-buried in rubble. Behind him, voices are coming on. He turns to see several Nepali men rushing up to the man he brought out from the building.

One of them steps beside him, reaches out, and taps him on the arm, then averts his gaze downward. “You bleeding,” he says in stilted English.

Mick looks down and sees a broad wedge of wicked glass poking through a spreading dark red stain on the side of his shirt. Shit, that’s not good. He looks back up at the Nepali, whose concerned face is now wavering in and out of focus, and as the world spins, Palisha’s face flashes before him.

2

JANUARY 26, 2015, FOUR MONTHS EARLIER — KATHMANDU, NEPAL

Mick peers out the window of the Cessna as it taxies to a stop outside Kathmandu’s domestic terminal. It hardly seems possible his good friend, Frank Kincaid, is dead. Across the aisle, Frank’s significant other, Sarah Madden, is looking ahead, subdued, while she strokes a gold locket around her neck. She moved from the States last year to spend the rest of her life with the man she’d fallen in love with three years ago on the mountain. But now she’s going back home, and she hasn’t said a dozen words since he picked her up this morning from her teahouse and walked her down the lane behind the tiny mountain airstrip. He hurts for her and for himself. He’d known Frank for over twenty years and considered him a great friend. The mountains won’t be the same without him. The man did so much to provide a better life for the people who’d taken in his family after they fled a war-torn country so many years ago.

Unbuckling his seat belt, he gathers his daypack as the flight attendant lowers the air-stair down in the back. Sarah is gathering her things as well. She glances over at him with a thin smile and gets up to follow Terry Andersen off the plane. The tall, silver-haired expedition owner, who’d known Frank since he started the company forty years ago, had flown in from New Zealand for the funeral puja. He’d be connecting with his flight back to Christchurch in the afternoon. Sarah would be staying overnight and heading to the States first thing in the morning.

Mick reaches out and tags her arm holding her pack. “Here, let me get that for you.”

“Thanks,” she says, handing it to him, then moves ahead, waiting to deplane.

He follows her, wanting to say something, do something, anything, to lift the heavy weight they’re carrying in their hearts. But there’s nothing there. He sighs. The empty feeling inside him is familiar territory. He wants to pretend it’s all a bad dream, wants to be Mick again.

Sarah and Terry wait for him outside, and when he steps down onto the tarmac, they walk under bright sunshine to the stuffy two-story terminal. For a Monday morning, it’s unusually busy inside the antiquated building. Foreign nationals and Nepali guides are milling around in the crowded dingy passenger hall waiting on flights to the mountains. The three of them weave through the throng to the baggage claim, and when they come to a cart of off-loaded luggage from their flight, Terry turns and puts his hand out to Mick.

“Well, I guess this is good-bye for now. Take care of yourself, Mick.”

He shakes the man’s hand. “Have a safe trip home. Best to the missus.”

“Thanks.” Terry smiles, then turns to Sarah hesitantly, as if not knowing if he should pull her into a hug. Finally, he extends his hand. “I wish ya well. If ya need anything at all, ring me up, ya hear.”

“Thanks, I’ll be sure to do that,” Sarah answers, shaking his hand. “Have a safe flight.”

They watch him grab his bag and wave to him as he marches away toward the international terminal. Finally, Mick says, “Well, let’s grab our taxi. You want to do lunch out or head straight to the hotel?”

“I think I want to go to the hotel. Maybe do lunch after we get settled?”

He nods and they walk outside to hail a cab. The ride in the sub-compact car into the dense, sprawling, smog-ridden city is stop and go. Traffic is heavy on New Road, which leads to Dubar Square in the old part of the city—and he’s uncomfortable. The cabbie seems to be trying to find every bump and pothole, and no matter how he sits in the back seat, he can’t straighten his legs. Sarah looks back from the front seat and her expression is one of apology. He shakes his head, gesturing for her not to worry. It’s not the first time he’s been stuffed into a tight space.

Finally, the cab pulls up to their hotel. It’s an unpretentious brick and pale stucco building with a narrow court leading around the side to an entry vestibule flanked by a tired acacia that’s seen better days. He pays the cabbie and they find their way inside. The dated lobby is furnished with a pair of vinyl-upholstered chaises. A faded oak coffee table and a tallboy cabinet converted into a continental breakfast bar stand at the end of the room. A heady scent of Champa permeates the stuffy air. Presently, a small group of tourists is checking in. He sets his bag and Sarah’s down by a potted rubber tree over in the corner that appears to not have been watered for some time.

Sarah finds a seat on one of the chaises and pulls her phone out, stares at the screen, and then types away. When he steps next to her, she looks up. “So, where do you want to catch a bite once we’re done here?”

“I was thinking maybe we’d wander into Thamel. There’s a nice little café I know of that makes something I think you’d love.”

She cocks a brow and a hint of a smile appears on her lips. “Oh, what would that be?”

It’s good to see her smile. He wags a finger at her. “You’ll find out.”

“Okay, be that way.” Her phone buzzes in her hand, and she looks down at it. “My son says to say hi.”

“Tell him I said hi back, and he better be treating my EBC leader right or he’ll be answering to me.”

“I’ll do that,” she answers, then glances over her shoulder at the reception desk. “Ah, they’re done. Time to check in.”

An hour later, they step out of the hotel and head into the old part of the city. It greets them with a cacophony of beeping horns, ringing bicycle bells, storekeepers hawking their goods, and a confluence of Nepali and foreign chatter. The warm gentle breeze wafting around them on the crowded street carries the murmur of reedy flutes and squawking radios. As they weave through the swarming throng of city denizens and tourists, the aroma of garlic and curry drifts out of street-side cafés. His stomach grumbles.

The place he’s leading Sarah to is located down a broad lane off the main street a hundred feet ahead. When he comes to it, they turn onto the cobblestone lane and walk into a mall-like atmosphere. Unlike the hodgepodge conglomeration of markets, shops, and restaurants along the main thoroughfare, the storefronts here are modern and orderly. Trash finds its way into decorative dark green receptacles and the potted ferns, pale lilies, and rosy gardenias are well tended. It’s also less crowded.

“Wow,” Sarah says, ogling the shops as they walk.

“Frank never brought you here?” Mick asks, surprised, but he’s not astonished. Frank wasn’t much on upscale, modern things.

“No, the stinker.” She drifts over to a storefront window and looks through it at a shelf of neatly arranged singing bowls and brass Buddha statues.

He waits until she’s seen her fill, then gestures her to an open door ahead under a sign that says Rhododendron Café. “We’re going up to the second floor,” he says, ushering her inside. “Watch your step, the stair is a little steep.”

At the top landing, they enter an airy reception space that flows into an open floor plan with paddle fans spinning overhead. Pots of tall leafy ferns and lilies are scattered about the dining area that hums with mingled conversations and a vibrant Nepali tune piped in from above. He scans over the occupied bar-height mahogany tables while Sarah pans the room with an appreciative gaze.

“What do you think?” he says, turning to her.

“I like it,” she answers as the receptionist heads toward them.

“Could we have that table over in the corner?” Mick says in Nepali to the smiling, short-statured woman whose long black hair is pulled into a thick braid. As she leads them to their table, he leans down and whispers into her ear to bring them two tall glasses of the house specialty. When he looks up, Sarah is side-eyeing him.

“What are you up to?” she asks.

He shrugs, flashing her his best innocent smile. “Nothing.”

They take their seats and peruse their menus, which are aimed at western tourists, and in this case, American tourists. While he’s looking at the selections, he’s sneaking peeks at Sarah, wondering if he should bring up her going back home. He feels like anything he says is inadequate or worse yet, flippant and stupid.

At last, he clears his throat. “So, what looks good?”

“I’m thinking a cheeseburger and fries. I haven’t had one of them in six months. You?”

“Ditto,” he says, setting his menu aside.

“So, where are you off to after I leave?” she says, leaning back in her chair.

He pauses. Until yesterday, he’d debated whether to go back to Pokhara and try to busy himself with work, anything to take his mind off the last four months. But the truth is, he doesn’t want to be alone. Should he drop in on Palisha? Yet, how can he burden her with so much death, so many broken lives, and the pain he carries for people he cares about? It doesn’t seem fair, but now that it comes to it, he finds himself wanting to hear her soothing voice tell him, I am here for you, tell me everything.

Finally, he says, “Gonna see a friend on the other side of town, I think.”

“I’ll be doing that as soon as I get home,” Sarah says as the waiter brings Mick’s surprise over. The woman sets down two tall glasses of thick chocolate cream poured over ice, topped with whipped cream, shaved chocolate, and drizzled caramel syrup. Sarah looks up, her eyes wide as the waitress sets straws down beside them. “Oh, my God!”

The waitress smiles, then pulls out a small pad and pen from her apron. “What I get for you?”

Sarah pulls her menu over, gives it a last look, then in Nepali, says, “I’ll have the cheeseburger and fries.”

“Me too,” Mick adds in Nepali, watching Sarah with a grin as she stabs her straw in the shake and sucks a drink. After the waitress heads off with their order, he switches back to English. “Well?”

“I love it!”

“Thought you would. They make the best shakes in town.” He picks up his drink, sucks a gulp, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. When he sets the glass back down, Sarah is snickering. “What?”

“You missed a spot. You have whipped cream on your nose.”

“Oh!” He wipes it off and they go quiet a moment.

Finally, Sarah says, “So, do you have anyone special in your life?”

The comment catches him off guard, and he hesitates. He knows what she’s getting at. A woman. Palisha is close to what she’s hinting at, but they’re just best friends. Except he can’t deny he loves her, and if circumstances were different, it might be more. At last he says, “Not really. I almost got married years ago, but it didn’t work out.”

“What happened? That is, if you want to talk about it.”

“She died,” he says, shrugging as the memory of Vivian surges forward. He hasn’t thought about her in a long time, mainly because he doesn’t want to relive the week he spent in the hospital watching her struggle for her life.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says as the waitress brings their meals over.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

Sarah nods, and he sees her gaze go inward. He wonders if she’s thinking of her husband, who died on the Everest all those years ago, or maybe she’s thinking of Frank. They eat in awkward silence, and he’s uncertain where to go in this emotional minefield. Everything seems to lead back to loss and grief. At length, he sets his burger down and blurts out, “I do have someone I care about, and if things were different....”

“Oh?”

“Her name is Palisha. She co-manages a hotel in town with another woman. She’s a Nepali widow, and her family’s very traditional.”

Sarah looks up in surprise and sits back with a speculative expression on her face. At last she says, “I get it.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin and he can see her turning something over in her head. “She’s a grown woman, right…around your age?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it seems to me, customs and status aside, she can make up her own mind. Have you told her how you feel?”

“Not really. I never saw the sense in it,” he answers, surprised at himself for bringing Palisha up. Stop talking, Mick.

“Well, you’ll never know, unless you say something. I take it she’s on her own, not with family?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I think she’s quite capable of making her own decisions. Say something—tell her! She might be having the same feelings. Don’t take that choice away from her. That’s not fair to you or to her.”

He knows Sarah is right, but she doesn’t know how difficult traditional Nepali families can make it for family members who stray from their own. Palisha has finally started making her way back to her family after years of alienation for striking out on her own. To put her in a position of making a choice between him and her family after fighting to get back in their good graces for the last ten years is not only presumptuous, but cruel. But he doesn’t want to argue with Sarah. “You’re right. I’ll think on it.”

“I hope so,” she says, and drags a fry through a dab of ketchup on her plate. “You’re a good man. She could do a lot worse.”

Lincoln bolts up in bed. Another nightmare! He can still see Collins falling, falling: falling head over heels from the vertical slope five feet away from Camp 3. What should have been a glorious day after summiting the mountain had turned into a disaster.

He rips the blanket away and gets up in the little room swathed in heavy shadow. Beside him on a nightstand, red numbers bleed out into the darkness from his LED alarm clock. 5:34 a.m. Another hour before he needs to be up for work, but there’s no going back to sleep now.

He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking away the nightmare, and goes into the bathroom down the hall. The tiled room is basic: a porcelain sink, a hose on the wall used as a shower, and an eastern toilet on the floor. A plastic pail sits in the corner with a roll of toilet paper hanging on a crooked wire over it. He turns on the faucet, cups cold water in his hands, and splashes his face. Looks in the mirror and sees a man he barely recognizes these days.

What is he still doing here, halfway around the world? Yet he can’t seem to uproot himself and move on. He thinks of home back in the States. Not yet, a voice whispers in his brain. Then where? What is he searching for? He thought he’d found it when he first came here in 2011. Now he hasn’t a clue, except he doesn’t belong back home. He sighs, traipses back into the bedroom, and looks out the window at the approaching dawn. The city sleeps below, save for the faint crowing of a rooster in the surrounding Kalimati neighborhood. He moved here shortly after coming down from the mountain, intending to stay only a few months until he figured things out. Almost three years later, he’s no closer to it. The one plus is that he’s made a few good friends. Among them are Binod and Sila, who live in the upper flat across the street from him with their son, Arjun, and their daughter, Sunita.

Binod is a real go-getter, working two jobs, one of which is guiding in the mountains for an outfit called High Trails. The other is at his brother-in-law’s shop in Thamel. Binod’s wife, Sila, is a nurse, and she’s a delight. A ready smile always graces her tan heart-shaped face whenever their paths cross. At present, she’s very pregnant.

He smiles as he thinks of how attentive Binod is around her. Although their marriage was arranged, there’s no doubt they love each other. Every action between them conveys an adoration and respect that spills over to their children. Arjun is a sturdy-built boy: a rambunctious thing, kinetic, curious, and perpetually moving. Yet he’s obedient to his parents’ gentle directions and polite to a fault. His thirteen-year-old sister, Sunita, is her brother’s antithesis: quiet and thoughtful with dark eyes that look at the world in a searching, absorptive way. Lincoln’s mother had that same look, a deep soulful gaze that translated into her paintings of the rural countryside around their Central New York home back in the States. He sees a budding artist in Sunita that needs encouragement. The young girl has told him her birthday is coming up soon. Perhaps he’ll hunt for an artist’s pad and pencils for her.

Again, he hears the rooster crow and he comes to himself. A run out in the fresh air would do him good. He changes into a fresh t-shirt and shorts, slips into his sneakers, and is out the door jogging into the misty haze of the deserted street. It’s a comfortable morning with a breeze carrying the remnants of last night’s rain. In the distance, the shush of traffic on Ring Road whispers over the aging two- and three-story buildings, houses, and apartments. He turns north toward the park and rouses a dog that barks at him from an upper porch. A muffled reprimand follows from somewhere inside.

His usual route is a three-mile loop around the park (four times around), then back through the maze of streets that make up this section of the city. His feet slap the gritty pavement and sweat beads on his brow. His rambling thoughts dissolve into the pounding rhythm of the run, and it isn’t long until the cascading rush of endorphins takes over, delivering a liberating high.

When he gets back, his mind is clear, but he knows it’s only temporary. The demons of his past will be back, if not tonight then tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. They like to remind him of the part he played in the deaths of his parents and of his friend Collins on the mountain every opportunity they get. At least he has his job at Tripureshwor Transportation (thanks to Binod) to keep him busy so he doesn’t spiral down into the guilt that haunts him.

He strips out of his clothes, showers, and throws his uniform on, then heads back out to his Honda Aviator. It’s a six-mile, forty-five-minute ride by cab through the congested metropolis to his job. For this reason, he gave up on cabs shortly after he started at the company and opted for his two-stroke motorbike. He pulls his helmet on and starts the bike up as Binod pops out of his apartment building.

A moment later, Binod rides over to him. “Namaste, Lin-ji, how are you?” he says. Binod has a hard time pronouncing Lincoln’s name, but Lincoln doesn’t mind.

“Tired. Woke early. Could not sleep,” Lincoln says, answering in Nepali. He’s getting more proficient with the language, but he still has trouble with it even after living here for so long. “And you?”

“Very good, thank you,” Binod says, pulling a pair of reflective sunglasses from his pocket. He puts them on and taps Lincoln on the arm. “I would like you to come for dinner tonight. If you want to, of course.”

Lincoln is surprised at the sudden invitation. Up until now, things have been casual between them, a favor here and there, friendly conversation and sharing a bit about their lives. He shrugs. “Sure. What time you want me come?”

“Maybe six?”

Depending on where his dispatcher sends him on deliveries, he should be able to make it. “Okay. What I bring?”

“Whatever you want,” Binod answers, inserting the cord of his ear buds into his phone. He smiles, then revs his bike and is off riding down the road.

3

JANUARY 26, 2015— KATHMANDU, NEPAL

Binod turns his motorbike onto the narrow street where he lives and motors past a group of boys playing soccer in an abandoned lot. He’s invited Lincoln to dinner tonight and he’s anxious and excited about it. He’s never entertained an American before. He wonders how it will go as he pulls in front of the narrow three-story concrete building he lives in.

Walking his bike inside the front hallway, he leans it on its kickstand and hikes up the flight of stairs to his flat. When he opens the door, Arjun and Sunita are there to greet him.

He kicks off his shoes, gives his son a quick hug, and heads for the kitchen as Arjun flees ahead. Sunita slips back to whatever she was doing in the living room. His wife, Sila, is at the kitchen sink with her back toward him when he enters. It’s her day off from the hospital, and her hair is loose and flowing over her casual red sari.

“How was work?” she asks over her shoulder.

Binod grabs a bottle of aloe vera juice from the refrigerator. “Very good. I invited Lin-ji to dinner tonight.”

Sila turns with widened eyes and looks up at the clock on the wall. It’s pushing four o’clock. “Binod?”

“What? We talked about it, remember?”

“I know, but…okay. I will need to go shopping, though. What time did you tell him?”

“Six.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “What does he like to eat? I don’t know much about American cooking,” she says, gathering her hair into a loose knot.

Binod uncaps the bottle of aloe vera, sits, and takes a drink. “He’ll eat whatever you make, I’m sure. Don’t worry.” Except he is worried. He wants everything to be perfect. He sweeps his gaze around the tiny kitchen. There are dishes waiting to be washed on the counter, and a pair of plastic airplanes on the table.

“Arjun, put your toys in your room.” Then he turns and calls to his daughter, “Sunni, come here and help your mother with the dishes.”

“I’m still playing with them,” Arjun protests.

“I said, put them away. We have company coming over.”

Arjun frowns, then says, “Who?”

“Lin-ji, across the street.”

Arjun’s frown disappears into a wondrous smile. “Really? When?”

Binod softens his tone. “Soon, put your toys away.” He watches his son gather the planes up and run into the other room, then turns back to Sila. “How did Madrid do today? Did they win?”

“I don’t know. I was busy. I think maybe it was a tie,” she says. “I need money.”

Binod digs his wallet and cell phone out of his pocket. He snatches a pair of thousand rupee notes from it and puts them in her outstretched hand. “Sunni, I said now!”

Arjun runs back into the kitchen and stops with a thud behind his mother, who’s pulling down a canvas bag from the shelf. “Can I go?”

“Fine. Go change your shirt,” Sila says over her shoulder. “Hurry up. Don’t make your āmā late.”

The boy scampers off as she sets the bag on the table. “Are you guiding for Mick next month?”

Binod picks up his cell phone and scrolls through his messages. “I don’t know. We’re still sorting things out.”

“I need to know so I can plan.”

He looks up. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know,” he says as Sunita comes into the room. His daughter darts a curious glance back and forth between them.

“Where are you going?” she says to her mother.

“Shopping, we’re having company for dinner tonight.”

“Who?”

“Lin-ji, across the street,” Sila says.

Sunita’s eyes brighten and a demure smile crosses her lips. She looks away quickly, hiding her reaction to the mention of Lincoln’s name. Binod and Sila exchange knowing looks. They’re both aware that Sunni is (what’s the word?) crushing on the American. It doesn’t bother Binod, though. Sunni is young and infatuated, as many young girls are at her age. She’ll get over it.

Arjun comes rushing back wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with the words Everest Base Camp printed across the front. It’s one of his son’s favorites, and he dons it every time they have guests. Sila looks him over and tucks a lock of curly dark hair around his ear.

Behind him, Binod hears Sunita pick up where her mother left off with the dishes. There’s a subtle bounce in Sunita’s scrubbing—a click-clacking of plates that’s not lost on Binod or her mother. Sila flashes Binod a grin, then pats Arjun on the shoulder. “Okay, let’s go.”

He looks after his wife, watching her sari sway back and forth on her pear-shaped rounded body. At nearly eight months pregnant, the baby is riding low on her hips. He loves how the growing unborn child radiates and beautifies her. She thinks it’s a girl. He’s hoping for another son, and he’s already picked a name for him.

“When is he coming over?” Sunita asks, breaking into his musing.

Binod comes to himself. “At six,” he says, stepping to her side. She plunks a cup into the sudsy water and avoids eye contact as she washes it. When she sets it down in the drainer he picks it up and taps her arm. “You missed a spot. Slow down, Sunni, you’ll have plenty of time to change before he gets here.”

She freezes, then looks up as if she’s just caught him peeking in her dresser drawers. For a moment he isn’t sure if she’s going to run out of the room or break down and cry. But she just takes the cup from him and washes it again.

He leaves her to finish up her chore and puts his bottle of aloe vera back in the refrigerator. Walking into the living room, he looks things over to make sure the space is presentable for their guest. While Sila is an excellent housekeeper, he takes it upon himself to make sure Lincoln will be comfortable. He restacks the pile of magazines on the coffee table, straightens the picture Sunita drew of the Yamuna on the wall, and refolds the blanket draped over the back of the couch. As he does, he notices a drawing pad and pencils strewn on the floor near the window.

He picks the pad up and looks at the picture she drew of the shadowed buildings outside their living room window. A vibrant red and orange sunset is drawn in the background. She’s smudged the colors to create a fuzzy haze that bleeds over the rooftops, giving the drawing a muted, peaceful essence. He smiles. His daughter is talented. He collects her pencils and sets them with the pad on the coffee table for her to put away when she’s done with the dishes. Satisfied everything is in order, he turns to the TV and picks up the remote. Scrolling down the menu, he turns the channel to the news, hoping to catch the New Madrid score.

“I’m done,” Sunita announces, padding into the room.

“Okay, put your drawing away,” he answers, distracted by the reporter on the screen. It’s a segment about the Sherpa on Everest. Although he’s heard multiple reports over the last year regarding the demands of the Sherpa after the avalanche that took the lives of sixteen of their brothers on the Icefall, things are still evolving. He turns up the volume.

While he isn't a mountain guide on any of the Himalayan high peaks, whatever is happening there is sure to affect him. Mick says he shouldn’t worry, but Mick doesn’t know that underneath all the uproar and rhetoric is a growing gap between the old Sherpa guard and the next generation.

Lincoln shows up a few minutes after 6:00 p.m. with his daypack in hand. Binod lets him in as Arjun runs into the room. The American kicks off his boots, sets them next to the door, and pulls a large bottle of chhaang from his sack and offers it to him.

“Namaste, Binod. Thank you for invite me your home. Thought I bring refreshment,” Lincoln says in Nepali.

“Come, come,” Binod says, taking the bottle. He holds it in front of him and forces a smile. He doesn’t drink alcohol but it’s a gift, and a gift from a guest can never be turned away. He ushers Lincoln into the living room with Arjun trailing behind. After motioning Lincoln to sit, he dashes off to the kitchen with the bottle, leaving his son with the American.

Sila turns around from where she’s standing by the stove when he rushes in. “Is he here?”

“Yes,” Binod says, setting the bottle down on the counter. He opens the refrigerator and paws around the shelves.

“What are you looking for?” Sila says.

“An appetizer. He brought a bottle of chhaang,” Binod answers, glancing back at her.

“Chhaang?” Sila’s eyes widen and she darts over beside him. In a low voice, she says, “We don’t drink.”