Free Out of Order by Charles Benoit

travel alarm clock went ringing over the ledge.
    “Oh, kapi ,” the teen said, turning back to explain the situation to his friends, their English not as polished as his.
    “Just stay back,” Jason said without looking at the boy. Across the roof he saw that Rachel was almost in position, the monkey busy licking Hawaiian Tropic sun block off its fingers.
    He heard the footsteps behind him and turned to see the schoolboys running towards him, sticks and rocks in their hands. “No,” he shouted, putting his arms out to stop them, but they ran past him and headed to the monkey.
    Intrigued by a toothbrush, the monkey didn’t see the blitzing pack until it was almost on him. The monkey gave a high-pitched shriek and ran two steps at the boys, hoping to scare them off, then crouched as an empty water bottle whistled over its head. A broken broom handle cracked down as the monkey reached out for the backpack and a second stick, tossed like a spear, skidded across the roof, wide of its target. Gripping one of the padded shoulder straps, the monkey tried to pull the bag closer, the bag not moving, the bulk of the bag wedged under a bent piece of pipe that stuck out from the concrete. With the boys closing, the monkey gave the strap a second violent tug, the plastic clips shattering as the monkey scuttled sideways, the freed strap still in its paw. The monkey looked back at his lost prize, then at the boys, gave a spitty, yellow-fanged hiss and, waving the loose strap, leapt up and out to tightrope the jumble of wires strung along the street. Victorious, the boys gave a cheer and signaled to Jason and Rachel it was safe to approach.
    “Call toll free one eight hundred,” the teen said, stepping out of the way as Jason bent down to examine his pack. The side pockets had been torn open and there were long gashes in the top flap that exposed the extra tee shirts he packed, but, other than the smell, the pack had weathered the ordeal.
    “Whoa,” Rachel said, waving her hand in front of her nose as she squatted down. “What is that?”
    “It was cologne,” Jason said, lifting shards of the glass bottle from the soaked-through side pocket. “I guess it could have been worse.”
    “Yeah, you could have worn the stuff. How’s the rest of the bag?”
    Jason pinched the plastic snap and stretched the bag open, pushing his folded clothes to the side to check on the sari. “It’s a bit damp but everything looks okay. I guess I ought to thank you guys,” he said, looking up at the schoolboys.
    “Some restrictions may apply!” The teen held out his hand, his friends smiling as Jason took out his wallet.

Chapter Eight
    The boy held the collapsing paper cup through the horizontal bars of the window in the second-class car of the six twenty-five express to Ahmadabad, walking along as the train began to lurch out of the station.
    “Chai. Hot chai,” the boy shouted, determined to make one last five-rupee sale before departure. Jason took the folding cup from the boy’s hand, not because he wanted a second cup of the milky, oversweet tea but because he knew if he didn’t it would somehow end up on his lap. He handed the boy a crumpled fifty-rupee note and waited for change. The boy smiled and waved as the train picked up speed and the platform fell away.
    There was a chill in the morning air he had not expected and the scalding chai warmed his hands through the thin cup and burned his tongue when he dared a tentative sip. He yawned and stretched, tensing his muscles in his back and his legs. Other than the late-night fight over the sari he had slept well.
    Attar’s wife had had a full meal prepared for them when they arrived from their encounter with the backpack-stealing monkey. Just as she had done during lunch, Pravi Singh stayed cloistered in the kitchen, the children running out now and then to see the tall white man and his beautiful tanned wife. After the meal Attar had driven Jason to a store no larger than his cubicle