Free Little Princes by Conor Grennan Page B

where that sadness came from; leaving had never seemed like a big deal to me. And now here it was, that same desperate sadness, filling this very room.
    If walking into the responsibility of caring for eighteen children was difficult, walking out on that responsibility was almost impossible. The children had become a constant presence, little spinning tops that splattered joy on everyone they bumped into. I would miss that, of course. But the deeper sadness, the deluge of emotion, came from admitting that I was walking out on them. The children, as always, will be fine, Sandra had said. She could have said the same thing to my mom at the airport. I knew she was right. But I could not leave this house unsure whether or not I would ever return. I just wasn’t going to do it. Despite myself, I had become a parent to these kids—not because I was qualified, but because I had showed up.
    I went back into the big boys’ room. They were talking quietly in the dark.
    “Conor Brother!” I recognized Anish’s hoarse whisper. Dark shapes popped up in bed and whispered my name.
    “Boys—I’ll come back in one year, okay?” I whispered.
    “Okay, Brother!”
    “Good night, boys.”
    “Good night, Conor Brother!”
    I left Little Princes with a traditional Nepali leaving ceremony. Farid had come back from the hospital for a few hours to see me off with the other volunteers. The children, one by one, placed a red tikka on my forehead, gave me flowers, and bade me a safe journey. As each of the eighteen children approached, each asked if it was true that I was coming back next year. I confirmed it again and again. Some of the volunteers looked skeptical. Farid only smiled.
    I meant it. I would be back for them.

Part II

    AROUND THE WORLD AND BACK
    January 2005-January 2006

Two
    I arrived in Bangkok on a warm night in mid-January 2005. My flight was almost empty of tourists. Just three weeks earlier, the tsunami watched around the world had shredded the west coast of Thailand, wiping hotels off picturesque beaches at the height of tourist season. I would be meeting up with Glenn Spicker, a close friend from my years living in Prague. (His nickname, Little Glenn, came from the fact he is only about five foot eight, though he packs more energy per square inch than a white dwarf star.) When the news broke about the tsunami’s devastation, we contemplated canceling our trip, but decided that the best thing we could do for the country would be to visit and spend money there.
    I knocked on the door of Glenn’s hotel room. There was a scurry of activity from within, the door flew open, and there was Little Glenn, freshly showered, dressed in shorts and a black button-down, holding a can of Thai beer in each fist.
    “Dude!” He put the beers down, gave me a bear hug, then picked them back up and handed me one. “Put your stuff down—we’re going out. Time to spend some money on this town—they need it bad. We’re in Bangkok, man! Can you believe that shi — Oh, and there’s a change of plan. We’re gonna buy mountain bikes and bike across South East Asia. Way cooler, and it’ll impress the hell out of chicks. I thought of that on the plane—it’s genius, right? You down with that?”
    I dropped my stuff on one of the beds and took a long swig of beer, letting it seep through me.
    “Bikes. Yes, that is definitely genius. We could . . . wait—are you serious?” I said, trying to remember the last time I had even ridden a bike.
    “I never lie to you. Okay, this is awesome. Bikes it is—I’m serious. Are you ready? To go out? You need to brush your teeth or anything? The ladies are waiting, man! The real ladies, not the boys who dress up like ladies. I got your back, don’t worry. I know you’ve been out of the game for a while, that’s cool. You were saving orphans in Tibet. How was that? The orphanage? Was that crazy stuff, or what?”
    “It was Nepal. And yeah, ‘crazy’ just about describes it,” I said,