my shoulder. Night birds cry above the roar
of insects. Aslam sighs in his sleep. Lucky
Aslam. I bet he is dreaming of starring in a
movie with a girl with a high, sweet voice.
The moon climbs higher into the sky....
“Oy!” Aslam startles awake. “What’s that
noise?”
We squint through the darkness toward
the rustling.
My heart sinks. A pangolin.
For a while I hold my breath, watching
the pangolin sweep dry leaves with its flat,
brown-gray scaled tail. Its tiny eyes glint in
the darkness. With long claws, it digs through
a pile of dirt. Its red tongue flickers out to lap
up some ants.
And then in the moonlight, we see it—a
tiny baby, riding along on its mother’s tail.
Aslam picks up the box. “Get it, Rahim!
Then let’s call your grandpa and get out of
here!”
The pangolin huffs and lifts a fright-
ened snout. The baby slips down, and the
mother curls up tight around it. Protecting it.
Protecting it from us.
Aslam laughs. “Look, it’s made itself into
a ball for you. You can pick it up easily now.”
He opens the flaps of the box.
“I can’t.” My voice sounds as quiet as a
lotus flower unfolding its petals.
“You have to,” Aslam says. “Your grandpa
said you have to be a man, remember?”
“I know, I know!” I am almost shouting.
I scoop up the scaly ball. The scales are
cool under my fingertips. I remember that a
mother pangolin will die defending her baby.