Evan builds the last desalination pod in the row and gives Marc a nod to run the wires to it. This plant isn’t nearly as huge as the one we did in Djibouti, but it’s still big enough to supply both the desert reclamation project and the town of Berbera a few miles down the coast. I glance out through the door where Father is handling the solar panels with his freshly enlarged cloud. No new dangers anywhere in my sentry range yet, so I just lean against the wall and watch everyone work.
Marc tells a long, winding story about when the dorms were first built and my classmates all moved in there and left their nannies. Like a lot of his stories, it doesn’t seem to have a point at all, but it passes the time. He’s a surprisingly good storyteller. I almost feel like I was there. We listen and work through lunchtime and finish by the early afternoon.
“Anyone want to eat indoors today?” Father asks.
Everyone cheers at the proposition, so we pile into the vehicles and head to Berbera. The town doesn’t have anything I’d call a tourist draw, but the restaurant that Ibrahim and Bashir take us to has full-sized tables and knows how to cater to Americans. Kofi and Ahmed are already there and have food waiting for us when we arrive. We sit at a couple of adjoining tables and enjoy some fresh fish and a spicy rice dish.
Sentry duty is trickier here with all the metal around. It would be almost a sensory overload, but all the practice I’ve put in running extra eyes is paying off. I’m pretty sure I can catch guns or anything else dangerous that comes close well before they’re a problem. We’re almost done with our meal when a tall, thin man approaches our group. The dark skin of his bald head glistens with perspiration from the day’s heat, and he’s wearing a western-style suit and tie that are clean but look like they’ve seen better days. He isn’t carrying any weapons, so I give Father a nod as he comes near, letting him know the man isn’t a threat. Father returns an almost imperceptible inclination of his head.
“Are you Mr. Tom Butler?” the tall man asks in thickly accented English.
“Yes, that’s me,” Father replies, his voice wary.
The man’s face breaks out into a wide grin. “My name is Almis Gabyow. I know what you are doing here, and I am so happy.” He speaks slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “We have so little water, and your work is so very much appreciated. There are not many good men like you in the world. I am a member of this city’s council. From my people, I say to you, thank you.”
“I’m very glad we could help, Mr. Gabyow,” Father answers, relaxing. “It is our goal to preserve life, end suffering, and elevate humanity in whatever way we are able. The work we’ve done here is just the beginning. My children will be doing projects like this all over the world, until there is no corner of the planet where people do not have enough.”
The way he says it strikes me. It’s not just a credo or a sales pitch when it comes out of his mouth. He really believes it.
“Thank you. You are a good, good man,” Mr. Gabyow says. Addressing the rest of us, he adds. “And thank you to your children too. If you follow your father, you will do well.”
He bows, shakes Father’s hand, and leaves. A few days ago, I would have dismissed something like this without a thought, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe Father really is as good as everyone says. Maybe I’m wrong.
No. He killed her.
“Wow, that was excellent,” Marc remarks.
My siblings all murmur agreement, except Andrea of course. She doesn’t even add her usual affirmative hum. I glance over at her. That shaken look from the attack this morning still lingers in her eyes. I’ll talk with her later. I mean, I’ll talk. She’ll make her little light pictures or music or whatever. Or maybe she’ll just use that incredibly expressive face. But she clearly has something that she needs to work out, and for some reason she’s not bringing it up with the whole group around.
After lunch we split up. Evan and I are back on pipe duty with Ibrahim. We start the pipe a mile or so outside of the town, in a barren chunk of ground that looks like it won’t mind flooding until the locals connect up the smaller pipes and properly irrigate the place. The quick trip we took toward town is a slow crawl back as we bump across the rocky desert, leaving the thick tube in our wake. Ibrahim drives parallel to the road, just within sight of the cracked asphalt. Even though the truck is made for this kind of thing, the ride is rough. Evan lays the pipe, I keep watch. Through the earpiece, Marc is talking about the time when Chad got himself, Marc, and four of the little sibs lost on a hiking trip in Zion National Park when he was nine. No surprise there, apparently Chad was always a bossy little prick who didn’t know what he was doing. But I haven’t heard this one before, so it serves to fill the hours.
By the time the story ends, the rest of the group is at camp, building tonight’s shelter and solar field. I didn’t like the earpiece at first, but now I don’t mind. It’s nice to keep up the conversation with everyone even while Evan and I are out here in the boonies.
The bumpy ride finally gets us back to the desalination plant. Evan hooks up the pipe to one of the plant’s two outputs. I open the window and boost myself up to sit on the door. Ibrahim shakes his head, but Evan and I have done this maneuver enough times by now that he doesn’t bother to tell us not to anymore.
“Want to switch off?” I offer, raising my voice to compete with the wind. “Ride in the cab for a while?”
“Naw, I’m good,” he calls back. “I’m in the zone back here.”
“I get it,” I tell him, and slip back inside the window. I click the earpiece back on just in time to hear the tail end of another geeky dad joke from Father. A new pipe forms on the plant’s second output, and follows us as Ibrahim turns the truck around. We head south, slowing as we cross the road so Evan has time to build under it, and then rumble out into the desolate, rocky desert.
A couple of hours later, we’re done laying the pipe. Ibrahim stops the truck and Evan jumps out of the bed. I scooch over to make room for him in the cab. We get back on the road just before sundown. Ibrahim drives while we listen to Marc telling another one, this time about Louise and Andrea each deciding they wanted to find a boy to kiss at Disneyland a couple of years ago. It’s fully dark out when the story ends with their plans almost working until it turned out that they both decided on the same guy. The bright lights of the shelter shine like a beacon up ahead. Why didn’t I like Marc before? I can’t even remember.
The rest of the group is already eating when we arrive, so Evan and I grab our food and dig in. Even a little cold, it’s still delicious, better than anything the cafeteria ever serves. Father sits on the tailgate of one of the pickups, smiling as he looks around at my brothers and sisters. Our eyes meet momentarily.
I keep seeing the tall man from lunch in my mind. Hearing his words again and again. He’s wrong about Father being a good man, but Father does do good things.
Good enough to balance out killing Mom?
No. Never.
But good enough that I can let him live?
I’m starting to think so.
“Is everything all right, Noah?” Father asks warmly.
“Yeah, Father,” I answer, giving him a sincere smile for the first time in a long time. “Everything is good.”
