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“I beg you will be gentle with this box,”

Aslam says. “It contains precious treasures.”

Beside me, Dadu groans.

The officers frown at Aslam. “We know

that there have been poachers in these woods,

stealing pangolins and selling them across the

border in India. Are you aware this is against

the law?”

“Yes, sir.”

“These boys have nothing to do with it!”

Dadu’s voice is strong as he steps in front of

me.

The police officer nods sharply to Aslam.

“Put the box on the ground.”

Aslam flashes another smile as he puts

down the box. The other

police officer flashes his

torch into Dadu’s face,

then into mine. “You!

Open it.”

I flip open the flaps.

Dadu lets out a long,

shuddering sigh as the

policemen aim their beams

into the shadowy contents.

“Firewood?” one says,

raking the leaves and twigs

with his stick.

“I can explain,” Aslam

pipes up. “This boy here,

Rahim, is top student at

school. Someday he plans

to be a doctor, you know.

He is always studying ani-

mals and plants and things

of that nature. He wanted

to take home some of these fine specimens to

study at home.”

The officer shakes his head. “Why gather

them at night?”

“They are especially tender and full of life

at night,” Aslam says. “You know, dew from

the forest floor and all that. This is a very

famous forest, sirs, some say one of the jewels

in the crown of Bangladesh.”

Dadu looks from Aslam to me, to the

box. No pangolin? His white eyebrows stitch

together.

Aslam makes a little bow. “Is there a law

against taking home leaves, officers? If so, we

apologize.”

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