Chapter 9
The note was short. The child who handed it to Jocelyn was rosy cheeked, well scrubbed. A happy, healthy boy of eight or so, lurking hopefully about the inn as his parents cleaned and cooked and attended to their guests. Jocelyn obliged him with a generous tip, remembering the skin-and-bones children in the streets of Bombay.
How happy you are, he thought, watching the boy scamper down the stairs with his prize clutched tightly in one hand. How happy I was – once. But his world had come to a crashing halt around him before he was even that old. He envied the boy’s simple life of hard work and hard play. There was something very clean, very honest, about a child’s life.
Your name is on the list. They will discuss your case within the week. Do nothing, go nowhere.
No signature.
