Metal shacks lined the streets. Inside, fires cast sad light on meager dinners. It was after 9:00 PM, but barefoot children still played in the road. They scattered like roaches as the tuk-tuk approached, its lone headlight shining bright. The driver Kiem slowed to a stop in front of a yellow three-story house set back from the street. He turned back to his passenger. “We are here, Miss Severine.” A heavy-set guard with close-cropped black hair sat outside on the concrete stoop, leaning against the wall, half-asleep. He opened one keen eye when he heard the tuk-tuk approach and then the other when its engine cut off in front of the house. He shifted his gun in his thick hand and waited. The street smelled of glue. Across the street from the yellow house, several young men sat on the floor of a shack, working in dim light with their hands, their fingers turning, lifting, bending. Severine saw they were making flip-flops, cutting and pasting the pieces together. The men, high on fumes, were oblivious to her.
What do You think about The Brittle Limit, A Novel?
