Free The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton

holding books between their legs, spine out, as if that made the books invisible.
    “I feel certain that…”
    Matani fought to find the words. It was he, after all, who cajoled and scolded them into learning, who caned the younger ones when necessary. It was he who, in his neighbors’ eyes, made the library appear on the horizon. He was the go-between linking the villagers to the outsiders. Now that he and they faced this snake of an unfamiliar species, he had to be the one to defeat it.
    “Once the young man is well…” he said.
    But then his voice trailed off again, and he knew it would not return. The man who carries no weapon when he meets the snake must run, and fast.
    It was not two missing books that defeated him. They would be recovered. It was a fear—unreasonable, surely—that Scar Boy’s irresponsibility foretold a larger loss, a more extensive unraveling.
    “Hold it a minute here,” Miss Sweeney said. Kanikastood by her side, and she’d been translating. “Who’s misplaced his books? Can I talk with him?”
    Someone had spoken. Someone on his side had assumed a tone of authority. Matani surged with a gratefulness that he hoped Miss Sweeney could feel. “It is Scar Boy,” he said quickly. “He is unwell today. That is his brother.”
    “This is the policy, Miss Sweeney,” Mr. Abasi said in a warning tone. “You agreed to it and it exists for good reason. If every settlement loses books, soon we will not have enough to continue this project of yours.”
    “Scar Boy,” Miss Sweeney said slowly. “He’s…”
    She let the words drop, but Matani met her eyes. “Yes,” he said.
    She looked down at her clipboard, tapped her pen on it three times. “If he is unwell, of course he’s not brought the books,” she said. “Can’t someone else bring them?”
    “The family,” Mr. Abasi said, “doesn’t know where they are.”
    “Can’t someone run and ask him directly?” Miss Sweeney asked.
    Matani spread his hands. “He goes mute from time to time. A reaction, perhaps, to his…” He felt censored by Badru’s gaze, even though Badru did not understand English. “To his circumstances,” he finished.
    Miss Sweeney nodded as though she understood, but how could she? How could she know that the people of Mididima still couldn’t stand to look Scar Boy full in the face, even after all these years? It was not only his disfigurement. It was his attitude: the way he stood, the way he held himself apart as if morally superior, and his very silence,which seemed to remind them of their own moments of shameful inattention like the one that had led to his maiming. That is what made him an outsider.
    Miss Sweeney looked directly at Badru, studying him a moment. “Tell me, has your brother lost the books?” After a pause during which no one spoke, Matani translated.
    “They are not lost,” Badru said without elaboration, and Matani translated his reply.
    “If you don’t know where something is, it’s lost,” Mr. Abasi muttered.
    “The books the boy checked out,” Miss Sweeney said, looking down at her clipboard, “were a child’s illustrated copy of The Iliad and the Odyssey and”—she hesitated—“a collection of Zen meditations?” She named the last one as a question and pursed her lips as though holding back some strong emotion—laughter? tears?—but when she spoke a moment later, her voice was calm. “Aren’t they somewhere in the home?”
    “Or in the bush,” Mr. Abasi said, “or swallowed up by a leopard or burned in a fire or eaten in a meal.” He shook his head and muttered again. “Zen meditations. Dear God.”
    “Let’s think a minute. What can we do?” Miss Sweeney addressed her question to Matani, who had no reply. Into the space left by his silence, Mr. Abasi spoke.
    “This program of yours is well intentioned but flawed, an ill-fitted idea for tribes such as this,” Mr. Abasi said. “I’ve said this many times.”
    “Not now, Mr. A.,” Miss Sweeney