"If you still don't want to do it, I could give it to Miriam." Mujeeb immediately followed this up with a scoop of cheesecake.

There it was. The final straw.

Abdi felt something snap inside him. He regarded this emotion with curiosity. It had been a long time since he had gotten angry with someone, especially with someone he loved. He remembered their first meeting three years ago, Mujeeb in his more idealistic, greasier avatar and Abdi prowling for stimulating work with a perverse, adolescent randiness. They had corresponded over LinkedIn while Abdi was freelancing in Dubai.

He hadn't expected anything to blossom from that first meeting. He had been given a free economy class ticket to a place he had never been to before, he didn't have anything else to do and so he took it and found himself in the same Friday's sitting opposite the same man. He was impressed but not particularly moved by Mujeeb's free-speech, freedom of the press rhetoric. But he sensed a level of freedom from this rich, unkempt maverick. The editorial leash would be very comfortable. So, he took the job on a contractual basis and only changed it for a different post last year: Senior Middle-East Politics Consultant (whatever that meant).

It hurt to finally feel that leash tighten, after so many years.

"I'll call you," Abdi said, dropped ten dinars on the table next to his half-finished cheesecake and got up. Ruby was by the door, a little dazed at his haste but ready with a smile and a 'thank you, sir!'. Abdi kept walking. He had crossed the road through the overpass and was trying to flag a taxi down when his phone rang. He answered immediately.

"Habibi, stop. Just wait over there. Please. I'll..." Mujeeb's voice was hoarse, a long huff marking every sentence. He had been running. Abdi felt a pang of remorse shoot through him. That wasn't like him, to make an old man run across the road. It felt very puerile, in retrospect. Damya. Fucking Damya.

"Yeah, okay." He hung up, told the taxi driver to keep going and stepped back, waiting under the shade of a shedding tree. Little orange leaves coated him and he brushed them off. He couldn't help but notice how romantic the whole scene was shaping up to be. How Bollywood. Mujeeb huffing towards him, hands on hips, eyes focused. Him standing under a tree. Yellow tongues of flame in botanical form falling all around him.

Mujeeb stopped in front of him, not saying anything. He was too busy trying to catch his breath, Abdi supposed.

"You told me last year you were going to join a Crossfit or something," he said.

"Wife...told me...to stop...cardiac..."

"Yeah, don't make me feel guiltier. Come on." He led Mujeeb to a nearby bench and sat him down.

"Habibi," Mujeeb said, after a while. "Just tell me what the problem is? You were never like this before."

"Yeah, it's just...just Damya, I suppose. Unpleasant memories."

"Look. I had an ulterior motive with the whole thing. You know why it's so hard for anyone outside Damya to write a Damya story, don't you? The visas are a bitch to get. So, forgive me for getting a little excited when I had a pretty valid lead for something substantial and a journalist who's becoming a sort of brand name and also has a Damyan passport. That's it. Laid out for you."

"Yeah, I guessed as much." Abdi got up and felt around in his pocket for a cigarette. Mujeeb was beginning to ask for one but he shook his head. "I'm not going to try to kill you twice in one afternoon, boss." He lit it and took a long drag.

"So, no?" Mujeeb asked.

"Maybe. Send me the email. I'll get in touch with the guy. Is he reachable or is he the social recluse kind of paranoiac?"

"Johannes Tearfly, that's his name," Mujeeb said, air-quotes around name. "He replies to emails. Mentioned you a couple of times so-

"Wait, what's his name?"

"Johannes Tearfly. Why? Anyone you know?"

Something dry escaped Abdul Rahman's mouth. It could have been a chuckle or it very well could have been a sob. "Johannes Tearfly. Scientific Consultant. The Bloodistan Gazette."

"What's a Bloodistan Gazette?"

"The Bloodistan Gazette, Mujeeb," Abdul Rahman said, finishing his cigarette. "Is the story."

Ah, I'm sure we're all familiar with that buzz we get when there's something new and exciting for us to work on. Wanna hear about another buzz? Marijuana, that's a buzz. But not a particularly healthy one, I suppose. There's yet another buzz I quite enjoy every once in a while. That's the buzz I get from reading a comment. So gimme one.