The Indian Ocean wasn't blue tonight. Under the jagged, waning moon, the water looked like a sheet of hammered lead cold, heavy, and unforgiving. I stood at the edge of a rotting wooden pier in Bagamoyo, clutching Sasha’s hand so tight I could feel his pulse jumping against my palm. Behind us, the mainland of Tanzania was burning with the digital fires of the Great Leak. Ahead of us, across the black expanse of the channel, lay Zanzibar.
"The boat is coming, Mama," Sasha whispered.
His voice was different now. It didn't have that robotic hollow resonance anymore, but it was too calm for a six year old who had just watched a stadium collapse on his father. He was staring at the horizon with eyes that had seen the blueprint of the world and found it wanting.
"I know, baby," I said, my voi
