Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti by Ted Oswald

defensive, eyed Jak out of the corner of her eye.
    — Get up, Jak. Let’s go.
    The boy, snapped back to his senses, got up, making sure to pick up the piece of soupy bread that had fallen to the ground.
    Libète started to walk away, mug in hand and with Jak in tow, purposely passing between Jan-Mak and EZ, disrupting his efforts to aid the shamed ringleader.
    — I’ll be seeing you later,
Franswa
. She said his name in a sing-song falsetto.
    The spectators looked on in awe.
    **
    The two walked at a deliberate and dignified pace until they were out of view. Then they sprinted.
    They ran far and fast, cutting in between the lines of homes and streets on a wild route, the twists and turns of which were known only to them. They had several near collisions with passersby, leaping over chickens and children, nearly tripping over each other until they reached the end of Impasse Sara. There, the grey bricks used to make up the road turned into small pebbles, a route extending out and into the grassy marshes.
    The finish line of their race was an old two-story building in a state of near-collapse. Once reached, they doubled over holding their aching sides, breathing deeply and exhaling with equal force. Slowly, Libète started to laugh and Jak soon joined in.
    — I’m sorry that I lost your soup. She held up the empty mug in her hand. Jak took it and began to wipe the residue with his finger and plopped it into his mouth.
    — Mmm, Jak sighed in pleasure. Your Aunt is a bitter woman, but she makes such sweet soup!
    — I wish I had more for you.
    — It’s no problem. You tore those three to pieces—that was something to see! Besides, I think it tastes even better on Franswa’s face than sitting in my stomach.
    Jak began chewing the small piece of bread still clutched in his hand. Libète looked at the short boy, watching the food travel down his gullet and into his distended belly.
Poor Jak
, she thought. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for some time.
    — Come on, she said. Let’s climb.
    The old house at which their sprint ended was their fort, albeit a breached one. Hardly any buildings were built with two levels in Bwa Nèf, making this one seem like a tower. Other children sometimes played in or around the structure, but it was well understood that it was Libète and Jak’s first.
    The building was riddled with hundreds of holes from high-caliber bullets, and the casings could still be found on the ground without too much searching. Large sections of walls had collapsed, and the second floor, really just a few remaining planks, was weak in places, though still able to support the weight of two small children. All of the furnishings had long since been removed, weeds springing up in their place. The iron staircase to the second floor was stolen to turn to scrap, so reaching the second floor required exceptionally long legs, or in their case, scaling the wall using a series of small cracks and holes as handholds. As Libète climbed, she looked at six names painted on one of the intact walls, memorializing several young men and one woman who had died there some years before in a fight between gang members and the United Nations troops. She looked away and focused on her climbing. These were events Libète tried her best to forget.
    After Jak reached the second floor too, they sat down on the edge of a wall with their feet dangling over, surveying the familiar view. It was the best outlook they had found, with the ocean to their backs and Cité Soleil, Port-au-Prince, and Haiti’s peaks spread out before them.
    After several moments of silence, Libète spoke.
    — Jak, I’ve been thinking about Claire and Gaspar.
    He sighed and nodded.
    — Me too. I keep seeing them when I close my eyes. Especially when I try to sleep.
    She did not mention her own dream of San Figi.
    — There’s that, she said. But I’ve been thinking about more than seeing them when they’re not there—thinking about finding out who killed