I still tried to remove the body lice, and I still tried to wash.

But those simple tasks left me wretched and panting. My heartbeat was unnaturally high, even while lying down, and my breath came in short puffs, often accompanied by soft, involuntary moans. I was dying of hunger, and I was learning that it's one of the cruellest ways to kill a man. I knew that Big Rahul's scraps would save me, but I couldn't crawl across that room to the edge of his feast. Still, I couldn't look away either, and every meal he gluttonised found its witness in my dying eyes.

I drifted, often, in fevered visions to my family, and the friends I'd known and had lost forever in Australia. I also thought of Khaderbhai, Abdullah, Qasim Ali, Johnny Cigar, Raju, Vikram, Lettie, Ulla, Kavita, and Didier. I thought of Prabakeri and I wished that I could tell him how much I loved his honest, optimistic, brave, and generous heart. And sooner or later, my thoughts always found their way to Karla, every day, every night, every hour that I counted out with my burning eyes.

And it seemed, to my dreaming mind, that Karla saved me. I was thinking of her when strong arms lifted me, and the chains fell from my wounded ankles, and guards marched me to the prison official's office. I was thinking of her.

The guards knocked. At an answering call, they opened the door.

They waited outside when I entered. In the small office, I saw three men-the prison official with the short grey hair, a plain-clothes cop, and Vikram Patel-sitting around a metal desk.

"Oh, fuck!" Vikram shouted. "Oh, man, you look... you look fuckin' terrible! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! What have you done to this guy?"

The official and the cop exchanged neutral glances, but didn't reply.

"Sit down," the prison official commanded. I remained standing, on weakening legs. "Sit down, please."

I sat, and stared at Vikram with tongue-locked amazement. The flat, black hat hanging on his back by the cord at his throat, and his black vest, shirt, and scrolled flamenco pants seemed wildly exotic, and yet the most reassuringly familiar costume I could imagine. My eyes began to lose focus in the elaborate whirls and scrolls on his embroidered vest, and I pulled my stare back to his face. That face wrinkled and winced as he stared at me. I hadn't looked into a mirror for four months. Vikram's grimaces gave me a fairly good idea of how near to death he believed me to be. He held out the black shirt with the lasso figures that he'd taken off his back to give to me in the rain four months before.

"I brought... I brought your shirt..." he said falteringly.

"What... what are you doing here?"

"A friend sent me," he replied. "A very good friend of yours. Oh, fuck, Lin. You look like dogs have been chewing on you. I don't want to freak you out or nothing, but you look like they dug you up, after they fuckin' killed you, man. Just stay cool. I'm here, man. I'm gonna get you the fuck outta this place."

Taking that as his cue, the official coughed, and gestured toward the cop. The cop gave the lead back to him, and he addressed Vikram, a kind of smile pinching the soft skin around his eyes.

"Ten thousand," he said. "In American dollars, of course."

"Ten fuckin' thousand?" Vikram exploded. "Are you crazy? I can buy fifty guys out of this place with ten thousand. Fuck that, man."

"Ten thousand," the official repeated, with the calm and authority of a man who knows that he brought the only gun to a knife-fight. He rested his hands flat on the metal desk, and his fingers rolled through once in a little Mexican wave.

"No fuckin' way, man. Arrey, take a look at the guy. What are you giving me, yaar? You fuckin' destroyed the guy. You think he's worth ten thousand, in this condition?" The cop took a folder from a slender vinyl briefcase, and slid it across the desk to Vikram. The folder contained a single sheet of paper. Reading it quickly, Vikram's lips pressed outward, and his eyes widened in an expression of impressed surprise.

"Is this you?" he asked me. "Did you escape from jail in Australia?"

I stared at him evenly, my feverish eyes not wavering. I didn't reply.

"How many people know about this?" he asked the plain-clothes cop.

"Not so many," the cop replied in English. "But, enough to need ten thousand, for keeping this information a private matter."

"Oh, shit," Vikram sighed. "There goes my bargaining. Fuck it.

I'll have the money in half an hour. Clean him up, and get him ready."

"There's something else," I interrupted, and they all turned to look at me. "There are two men. In my dormitory. They tried to help me, and the overseers or the guards gave them six months more. But they finished their time. I want them to walk out the gate with me."

The cop gave an inquiring look at the prison official. He responded by waving his hand dismissively and wagging his head in agreement. The matter was a mere trifle. The men would be freed.

"And there's another guy," I said flatly. "His name's Mahesh Malhotra. He can't raise his bail. It's not much, a couple of thousand rupees. I want you to let Vikram pay his bail. I want him to walk out with me."

The two men raised their palms, and exchanged identical expressions of bewilderment. The fate of such a poor and insignificant man never intruded upon their material ambitions or their spiritual disenchantments. They turned to Vikram. The prison official thrust out his jaw as if to say, He's insane, but if that's what he wants...

Vikram stood to leave, but I raised my hand, and he sat down again quickly.

"And there's another one," I said.

The cop laughed out loud.

"Aur ek?" he spluttered, through the laugh. One more?

"He's an African. He's in the African compound. His name's Raheem. They broke both his arms. I don't know if he's alive or dead. If he's alive, I want him, too."

The cop turned to the prison official, hunching his shoulders and raising the palm of his hand in a question.

"I know the case," the prison official said, wagging his head.

"It is... a police case. The fellow carried on a shameless affair with the wife of a police inspector. The inspector quite rightly arranged to have him put in here. And once he was here, the brute made an assault on one of my overseers. It is quite impossible."

There was a little silence, then, as the word impossible swirled in the room like smoke from a cheap cigar.

"Four thousand," the cop said.

"Rupees?" Vikram asked.

"Dollars," the cop laughed. "American dollars. Four thousand extra. Two for us and our associates, and two for the inspector who's married to the slut."

"Are there any more, Lin?" Vikram muttered, earnestly. "I'm just asking, like, because we're workin' our way up to a group discount here, you know."

I stared back at him. The fever was stinging my eyes, and the effort it took to sit upright in the chair was causing me to sweat and shiver. He reached out, leaning over so that his hands were resting on my bare knees. I had the thought that some of the body lice might creep from my legs onto his hands, but I couldn't brush that reassuring touch aside.

"It's gonna be cool, man. Don't worry. I'll be back soon. We'll get you the fuck outta here within the hour. I promise. I'll be back with two taxis, for us and your guys."

"Bring three taxis," I answered, my voice sounding as though it came from a new, dark, deep place that was opening up as I began to accept that I might be free.

"One taxi for you, and the other two for me and the guys," I said. "Because... body lice."

"Okay," he flinched. "Three taxis. You got it."

Half an hour later, I rode with Raheem in the back of a black and-yellow Fiat taxi through the tectonic spectacle and pedestrian pageant of the city. Raheem had obviously received some treatment-his arms were encased in plaster casts-but he was thin and sick, and horror clogged his eyes. I felt nauseous just looking into those eyes. He never said a word, except to tell us where he wanted to go. He was crying, softly and silently, when we dropped him off at a restaurant that Hassaan Obikwa owned in Dongri.