Day Five

THE HOTEL RAMA appeared even drearier in the morning than it had at night. Ben agreed with Gran that they couldn’t trust the empty restaurant near the front door. They crossed the street to another restaurant and ordered what everyone else seemed to be having for breakfast. The parathas turned out to be steaming hot bread pockets stuffed with potatoes and onions. “Better than porridge any day,” Ben said.

As they sat at the table waiting for the server to bring tea, Ben said, “You know, Gran. You’ve been handing the money over to me to pay. Why not let me keep it?”

“I do find the whole money thing a hassle, but I don’t know, Ben.”

“I can do it. I’d like to. You can keep the bank card.”

“I’ve got over three hundred dollars in rupees here, Ben. It’s too much responsibility for a boy your age.”

“I need responsibility. I told Mum I’d help you.”

She was so frustrating. A grandmother should know that thirteen-year-olds need to be challenged. How could he persuade her that it would be easy for him to take care of the money? Maybe if he tried to look older.

Gran was watching him. Ben adjusted his expression, putting what he hoped was a serious slant on his mouth, a knowing frown across his eyebrows. He hoped he looked at least sixteen.

Gran smiled. “Okay, Ben, you’re so eager to do it. I’ll let you try being in charge of the money. But you’ve got to wear my fanny pack. It’s the safest place for it.”

There was no way Ben could see himself traipsing around like a geeky kid with a black pouch flapping over his stomach. He pulled his wallet out of his front pocket. “Our money will be totally safe here.” He opened the wallet, folded the money Uncle Bob had given him and tucked it into a smaller pocket. He held open the main compartment. “See, lots of room for that wad of yours!”

Gran had her fingers on the zipper of her pack. “I’d worry you’d be pick-pocketed, Ben.”

“Never! My wallet is a tight fit in the front pocket of my jeans.”

Reluctantly, Gran handed Ben the rupee bills. They were in a pile as thick as a paperback book. Ben packed them into his wallet, fastened the strap and stood up to stuff it in his pocket. He leaned his elbows on the table and grinned at Gran. It was a lot of money, but she’d see, he’d have no trouble taking care of it.

Gran smiled back. “First thing we need to do is take our malaria pills.” She passed a cup of tea to Ben. “Then we go to find the house where Shanti’s parents lived.”

“Got the cash! I’m ready!” Ben said.

“Don’t joke about it, Ben. I’m suddenly feeling nervous about going to Shanti’s old house.” Gran’s hand shook as she put down her cup. “It’s possible that Shanti’s right here in Agra. I’m not sure I’m ready to meet her.”

“Gimme a break, Gran. We’ve flown all the way from Canada, waited for two days at the registry office, travelled a whole day yesterday to get to Agra and now you get cold feet? Don’t back out now!”

“You’re right, Ben. I’m being silly.”

Your words, not mine, Ben thought. Funny how one minute he’d be laughing hard with Gran and the next he’d be totally frustrated and irritated with her. At least he wouldn’t have to watch her fumble with the money anymore.

A constant stream of cycle rickshaws came along the street, each cyclist hoping to be called over. A driver jumped down in front of them, pointing for them to use his rickshaw. He helped Gran get up into the seat and Ben got in beside her.

Gran took the address from her fanny pack. “We need to go to 187B Station Cross Road.”

“Memsahib, I will take you there directly and safely,” said their driver, springing onto his bike. “Though it will not be possible from here to be seeing the Taj Mahal, please do be enjoying the sights of Agra.”

He cycled at a leisurely pace along streets full of shops and crowded with people. He carried on a conversation by turning around in his seat, his legs pedalling steadily. He told them his name was Nabir. “I am the proud father of four sons and one daughter who live with my wife far away in my home town.”

“You don’t live with them? You live here in Agra?”

“Yes and yes-no. For most of the year I live right here in my rickshaw.”

It did look as though Nabir had all his worldly goods with him. Cloth bags and boxes were piled along the sides of the rickshaw, and there seemed to be more stored under the seat.

“My family live over one hundred kilometres to the east, and I visit them every year.”

“You mean you only see your wife and children once a year?” Gran asked.

“Yes, but I am sending money to them every week. That is why I work hard.”

Ben thought that even if you only saw your father once a year, at least you’d know he was coming back. Those kids were luckier than he was. He’d never see his dad again.

Nabir turned onto a street with a tidy row of houses and stopped at 187B. Gran and Ben looked at each other. This could be it. In one minute they could be seeing Shanti. A very wrinkled woman opened the door. Gran said, “We’re looking for someone. Do you speak English?”

The woman shook her head and backed away, leaving the door slightly open. After a short wait, a young man appeared.

“I speak English,” he said. “At least a little. How can I help you?”

Gran explained that the central registry office had given them this address for the Mukherjee family. The young man told them to wait while he asked his grandmother, who spoke only Hindi. He came back to say that his grandmother had lived in this house for thirty years and the residents before her were not called by that name. She thought older neighbours next door may have known the family. He would take them there.

The large house with an overgrown garden had an iridescent red and green parrot screeching at the world from its perch by the front door. Gran and Ben were introduced to the elderly couple who lived in the house.

The old man invited them to sit on the sofa and introduced himself as Mr. Sandhu. His wife was blind, he said, but her hearing was still good. They both listened carefully as Gran told her story.

“Indeed, we do know of them,” said Mr. Sandhu, as his wife nodded. “In fact they were our friends many years ago.”

Ben nudged Gran. At last. Gran had a smile on her face and sat forward on her seat. “How wonderful!”

“They were a lovely family,” Mrs. Sandhu said in a frail voice. “We used to watch the young boy and girl playing in the garden.”

“Was the girl called Shanti?” Ben asked.

“She could have been,” said Mr. Sandhu.

“Yes, Shanti was her name,” said Mrs. Sandhu, smiling. “She wore her hair in long braids. She was a serious girl, always reading.”

Gran clapped her hands together. “That’s Shanti for sure!”

“What happened to them?” Ben asked.

“The boy left to attend medical school.”

“And Shanti?” said Ben. This was getting exciting.

“When she turned ten her parents sent her to a good girls’ school, on the coast, I believe,” said Mrs. Sandhu.

“Yes, I know about the school. I don’t think it’s there now,” Gran said.

Ben wondered if it was time to let the cat out of the bag about trying to track Shanti down through the school site, but Gran had turned to the Sandhus to ask a question. “What about her parents? Are they still living?”

“They retired to Varanasi, east of here, to run a guest house. As far as I know, they are still there. Many tourists travel to Varanasi to bathe in the Ganges River, so owning a guest house there would provide a good income,” Mr. Sandhu said.

“What was the name of the guest house?” Ben asked.

Mr. Sandhu shook his head. “Sadly, I am not able to remember. You see, we lost touch completely.”

“All this was many years ago. My husband and I are close to ninety,” said Mrs. Sandhu.

Ben could see that Gran looked pale.

“Oh, to be so close,” Gran said as she thanked the Sandhus. She and Ben turned down the pathway of the garden and waved goodbye to the elderly couple as they reached the gate.

“Just a minute,” called Mrs. Sandhu. “I’ve remembered that the guest house had the name Vishnu in it. Vishnu, yes … I’m sorry I can’t remember more.”

“Great!” Ben said. “That’s a big help. We’ll find it.”

“There’s an overnight train to Varanasi,” called Mr. Sandhu. “It leaves at ten in the evening and you arrive at five in the morning. Be sure to get an air-conditioned sleeper.”

Mrs. Sandhu added, “Varanasi is India’s most sacred city. Since your train arrives early, you must try to visit the river at sunrise. Then you must find a guest house with the name Vishnu.”

Gran and Ben waved goodbye and started down the street. Suddenly Gran came to a halt. Her eyes scanned up and down the street as though she needed to memorize it. “I’m standing here knowing that Shanti walked on this street fifty years ago. I’ve got goose bumps all over my arms.”

How a person could have goose bumps in such hot weather was beyond Ben, but he knew what Gran meant. They hadn’t found Shanti yet, but they seemed to be getting closer. He felt his pocket to make sure the wallet was there.

Curled up on the plastic seat of his rickshaw, Nabir dozed in the shade. Pleased at their news, he grinned at them, then jumped on his seat and began the long cycle back to the town centre.

Ben punched the air with his fist. “This is a hot lead, Gran. We’ll take that train to Varanasi tonight. It won’t be hard to find a guest house called Vishnu and I’ll bet Shanti’s parents are still there.”

‘You’re more optimistic than I am, Ben. They’d be so old.” Gran seemed to be afraid to count on anything. She sighed and squared her shoulders. “Now I think we should see the Taj Mahal. Maybe we should check out of the Hotel Rama first.”

Going up the hotel steps, Ben said, “It’s just too bad we won’t have their deluxe service for another day!”

Gran gave a weak little laugh.

The desk clerk assured them he had a secure room behind the reception desk for their luggage. “Put your passports and visas in the packs. They will be safer here than in the crowds at the Taj Mahal. You will see,” he said. He put the backpacks in the dark room and made a show of locking the door. “No need for a baggage ticket. I myself will be at the desk all day.”

“Makes me a bit nervous leaving everything here,” Gran said on their way out.

Ben made a face. “Never fear. Nothing can go wrong with Mr. Fix-it on the team.”

This time he made Gran laugh out loud.

Nabir was waiting and gave them a ride to the entrance of the Taj Mahal.

Ben pulled out three hundred rupees for a tip and lifted his eyebrows in a question at Gran. She nodded and Ben handed the money to Nabir. “Maybe you can visit your family a few months early this year.”

Without counting the bills, Nabir tucked them into an invisible pocket in his worn dhoti. “My thanks, and now I see that you will be having good fortune as the queue for the Taj is not so long.” Ben wondered what he meant. The lineup was more than twice as long as a soccer field.

“What’s so great about this Taj Mahal anyway?” he asked Gran, as they took their place at the end of the line.

“It’s said to be the most beautiful building in the world, and it’s special for me because Shanti talked about it.”

After a long hot wait they reached the front of the line and the ticket booth. Ben purchased the entrance tickets and they went through a dim passageway, where a crowd of men waited to be hired as guides.

A man’s voice beside them said, “Welcome, memsahib, and also to you, sir, with the fine Canadian hat. Please let me be your guide to this great testament to love we call the Taj Mahal.”

“It’s all right. We’ll see it by ourselves,” Gran said, turning away.

The guide followed behind and continued talking. “You must know that it was built by Emperor Shah Jahan as a burial spot for his beloved wife, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child.”

Gran said, “I think we’d rather see it alone.”

“Memsahib,” the eager man answered. “I am able to point out the features of the Taj and also to instruct your son in the locations for the best photographs. He has a fine camera I see.” The man had a big smile and the largest ears Ben had ever seen.

“I’m sure your services would cost a lot of money,” Gran snapped.

“At the end of our time together, you may pay me whatever you think I’m worth,” said the guide. “I have a university degree in history, so you may ask me any questions.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Ben said. This guy seemed honest and he could use some help getting the best shots. If the man thought he was Gran’s son, it didn’t matter.

“We can manage, thank you,” Gran said, dismissing the guide, who shrugged and turned away.

“I think we should have hired him,” Ben said. “He’s just trying to earn a living.”

“People like that are after money from tourists, Ben. You and I can see everything on our own.” She stopped by the archway. “Before we go in could you please buy some bottled water at the kiosk?”

The clerk placed the two bottles on the counter and Ben reached for his wallet. The pocket where he kept it was empty. So was the other pocket. Quickly, he searched his back pockets, even though he never put his wallet there. It was impossible, but the wallet was gone. Along with all Gran’s money and his own too, it had vanished. Ben’s face felt sweaty, and his scalp prickled. He always put the wallet back in his pocket. Somehow he must have dropped it. Or left it on the counter at the ticket booth. Yes, it was probably there.

Ben saw that his grandmother had her nose buried in a rack of postcards. Avoiding her, he made his way through the crowd to the ticket booth. “Sorry, sorry,” he exclaimed, pushing past people waiting in line who’d probably see him as a rude North American tourist. Ben blurted, “I think I left my wallet here when I bought our tickets.”

The cashier shook his head.

“It’s blue,” Ben said, gesturing with his hands. “This size.” The cashier peered casually around the counter in front of him, shook his head again and turned to the next person in line.

It had to be somewhere. Ben scoured the floor around the ticket office; he got down on his knees and searched behind the booth, putting his fingers into the dark corners on the floor. He scrambled up and raced through the passageway, desperately looking everywhere. There was no wallet. He heard Gran calling him and made his way through the guides, all the time scanning the floor for a blue wallet.

“Where’d you disappear to?” Gran asked.

“Just trying to find water,” Ben lied. “The kiosk didn’t have any.” Amazing how easy it was to lie. He realized he’d do anything to avoid telling Gran he’d lost their money. Lost it the same day she’d given it to him.

Gran didn’t question his explanation and began heading through the archway into the garden leading to the Taj. Ben followed her along a path beside two reflecting pools. He barely noticed the massive white dome framed with four slender towers ahead of them. His mind was reeling. Where was his wallet?

Ben looked over at Gran and saw tears rolling down her cheeks. What was it now? His grandmother wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s like a giant pearl floating in space. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. I think of Shanti standing right here and remember all over again how much I want to see her.” Gran covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

Ben stood beside her, mortified at his grandmother’s blubbering noises. He patted her arm. If she cried like this over a building, she’d be uncontrollable when she found out all their money was lost.

Across the lawn a worker led a grey bullock pulling a lawnmower. Ben tried to distract his grandmother. “Look at that. A new way to mow the grass, Gran!”

His grandmother lifted her head, wiping her nose and sniffling like a kid.

Ben needed time, and he had an idea. “Let me see your guidebook, Gran.”

He’d try reading to her to give himself time to think. Ben sat down on a marble bench and motioned her to sit beside him. He began reading. “Says here, it took twenty-one years and twenty thousand workers to complete the building. And after the work was finished, the Shah cut off the hands of his workmen!”

“Why would he do that?”

“Apparently he wanted to make sure no other building in the Mogul empire could ever be as beautiful as this one, because no other love could match his love for his wife.”

One glance told him she was starting to cry again.

Ben had a flash that maybe, just maybe, this place had a Lost and Found and his wallet had been turned in. Now he was desperate to get back to the entrance. “We should leave,” Ben said, grabbing his grandmother’s arm in an attempt to pull her off the bench.

“Ben! We just got here. I want to sit and enjoy this place.” She pushed his arm away. “What’s the matter with you anyway?”

He’d have to lie again. “Gran, I … you know. I’ve got bad stomach cramps. I think it’s something I ate. I have to get to the toilet. Right away.” He clutched his stomach, turned and rushed back through the passageway.

If he was lucky and his wallet was at the Lost and Found, Gran would never need to know he’d lost the money. The crowd scattered on either side as he rushed down the middle. So many people, so many of them poor — it would be a miracle if anyone had turned his wallet in.

Once again, Ben pushed his way to the front of the line at the ticket booth. A new cashier was selling tickets at the counter. He frowned as Ben explained. The man barely looked at him. “We have no Lost and Found. Sorry.”

Again Ben hunted in every corner of the entrance and into the passage. He shoved his way through the guides, looking around the floor, up and over all the sandals, the slippers, the clogs, the loafers, the sneakers, big and little, until he found himself back in the sunny courtyard in front of the Taj.

Gran was still sitting on the bench and had stopped crying. She saw his face. “You look terrible, Ben.”

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep, I’m just going to wander around and take some pictures.” He had no idea what to do next. With his heart thumping, he quickly shot pictures of the Taj. Then he got a photograph of the bullock mowing the lawn. Another of two little children trailing behind their mother. Another one of the bullock.

“Do you want to go, Ben?” Gran said as she came up behind him.

“I’m not in a hurry now,” Ben said. Why couldn’t he just lie down and bury his head in the grass and never have to explain anything to anyone?

“I don’t like the way you look. Come on, let’s go back to the hotel.”

On the way out, Gran stopped at the postcard rack. “These cards have the story about the Taj on the back. I’ll pick some out and you can pay for them.”

Ben froze. “I’ve got good pictures, Gran. You don’t need postcards.”

“But I can mail these, Ben. I’d like to send cards back to Canada.”

He couldn’t put if off any longer. He’d have to tell her. Ben heard himself mumble. “I can’t pay for them.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t have the money, Gran.”

“What?”

“I don’t have the money. I lost my wallet.”

Gran’s voice seemed very loud. “You’re telling me you’ve been robbed?”

“I don’t know. I think I might have dropped the wallet. They don’t have a Lost and Found here. I’ve searched everywhere.”

Gran threw her hands in the air, shook them and let them drop. “I knew it. You’ve been pick-pocketed. I was stupid to let you keep all our money in that wallet!” She was yelling now.

“Calm down, Gran.”

Frantically she began to sweep her eyes around the entranceway. “I think I know who did it. That man who was pestering us to hire him as our guide. He got a little too close. He took it!”

Then, at exactly the same moment, both Gran and Ben saw the man Gran had been talking about come toward them. Ben recognized the man’s big ears — and his own blue wallet in the man’s outstretched hand.

“I believe this belongs to you?” the guide said.

“It does! Where did you find it?” Ben said.

“It was turned in to the man at the water kiosk and I told him I thought I’d seen you with it as you came in from the ticket booth. I remembered your Canada hat.” With an easy smile, he handed the wallet to Ben. “Please check inside. I think you will find the money there, but please count it.”

Gran’s face broke into a smile and she reached out to shake the guide’s hand. “Thank you so much.”

“You are most welcome, indeed, memsahib. I do hope your son got some good photographs.”

“She’s my grandmother,” Ben said.

“I would never have guessed. The memsahib looks so young.”

Gran was beaming at him. “We’d like to give you a reward.”

“No, no, memsahib. Most happy to be of service.” The guide made the namaste gesture and turned to join the other guides.

Gran said, “I feel so guilty thinking that nice man had robbed you.”

“Just goes to show, most people are honest.”

“You are one lucky boy, Ben.”

“I know I’m lucky. It was scary.” Ben started to put the wallet in his pocket. “I don’t know how I lost it. I always put it back in my pocket. I’ll be extra careful with the money from now on, Gran. It will never happen again, I promise.”

Gran stopped in her tracks. “Benjamin, it will never happen again because if you want to handle the money, you’ll be wearing my fanny pack.”

Ben shook his head. “I can’t do it. I’d feel too lame.”

Gran’s jaw was set. “Then give the money back to me.” She opened the zipper. “It will be safe in my pack, even though you think it’s funny.”

For a millisecond, Ben thought maybe he could wear the fanny pack. After all, nobody knew him in India. Then he realized there was no way; he’d rather be seen wearing his grandmother’s skirt than the belly pouch. He took out the bills and handed them to his grandmother. Not looking at her, he stomped on ahead.

“Sorry, but that’s the way it has to be, Ben.” Gran said, rushing along behind him. “We should hurry. The train leaves at ten, and we’ve got to collect our backpacks at the hotel.”

Ben sat on the rickshaw as far apart from his grandmother as he could. It had been such a scare losing the wallet. His legs were still shaky. He felt stupid and embarrassed, but Gran should understand that anyone could lose a wallet once in their life. Now she’d taken away his chance to show it would never happen again.

Ben crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head away from his grandmother. He was first up the steps of the Hotel Rama. It was almost eight.

The clerk at the reception desk was a man they’d never seen before.

“Our backpacks are locked in that room behind the desk,” Ben said.

The clerk disappeared and returned with a small black overnight bag. “This is the only thing in our storeroom,” he said, shaking his head.

“I know our two backpacks are there. We saw the clerk put them in the room,” Ben said. “Where is the afternoon clerk?”

“He went home early with a bad ache,” said the new clerk.

“We need our packs. We have to get to the train station tonight,” Gran almost shouted. “Please get the manager.”

“No manager on night duty, madam,” the clerk said firmly.

Ben began to search the lobby. He opened one door to a bathroom and another that led to a set of stairs. This was crazy. How could two backpacks disappear?

Gran paced back and forth in front of the desk. “Every single thing we own is in those bags. Our passports. Our visas. Our airline tickets.”

“I wonder if they could be in our room?” Ben said.

“Most certainly I do not think so,” said the clerk, defiantly. “You are being checked out of the hotel and your room will have been cleaned.”

“Why not let me look in the room?” Ben asked.

“No, sir, we cannot do that. You see, you are being checked out. But I will call our porter. He will look for us.”

He ran the bell on his desk twice. They waited. Gran perched on a dirty chair in the lobby. She was taking deep breaths. Ben stalked back and forth in a steady path in the lobby. It was now twenty minutes past eight.

“Do not worry,” said the desk clerk. “The train station is a short walk from here.”

After ten minutes, their old friend, Mr. Fix-it, shuffled into the lobby.

“Oh, no,” Gran said. “I can’t believe it.” Her face was scarlet. Ben wondered if that’s how a person looked when they were about to have a heart attack.

“Let him try to find it, Gran,” Ben said.

It was another long wait before Mr. Fix-it came down the stairs, making a big show of carrying the two backpacks. “This afternoon I am seeing the bags, and I am having them returned to your room.”

Gran glared at the man. Mr. Fix-it dropped the two packs and stretched out his hand for a tip. “You are being most welcome.”

“The man is beyond belief,” Gran muttered, picking up her backpack and heading for the door. Ben followed and when they were outside, burst out laughing. “That guy actually expected us to give him a fat tip!”

Gran trotted along, muttering about the “stupid old fool in the stupid Hotel Rama.”

“Chill, Gran. It wasn’t a hotel, remember? It was an experience.”

“Never to be repeated, I hope,” she said.

“We got our bags. Lighten up.”

Inside the huge train station there was a line for tickets to Varanasi. Ben told Gran he’d be in the internet office at the other side of the station.

She nodded. “I’ll wait in the line. Watch your wallet.”

At one end of the terminal whole families camped in small groups along the walls. Women were crouched over cooking pots on Primus stoves; children wrapped in shawls sat cross-legged around the warmth of the flame. Other children, covered with rough blankets, stretched out asleep on the bare concrete floor. A grey-haired grandmother, her eyes closed, sat with her back to the wall, cradling a baby in a sling next to her thin body. Hot steam curling up from the cooking pots carried the smell of curry and spices into the homey space around each family.

The internet office at the end of the station was a hot, narrow room with three ancient computers along a counter. The man in charge told Ben it would cost fifty rupees for fifteen minutes. It was outrageous, but he paid. First he’d email home.

Dear Mum and Lauren

I accidentally lost our money, but we got it back. Now Gran refuses 2 let me take care of it unless I wear her stupid fanny pack. She has 2 have her way about everything and it’s driving me kra-zee. We’re leaving for Varanasi on the train.

Ben

Next the school site. Ben’s heart was beating hard as he keyed it in. It seemed to take a long time, and he blinked in disbelief when he found there was no response. Mrs. Rau had said that former students regularly checked their school sites for messages, but maybe it would take another day or two for a former student to spot the request. What was it Gandhi had said? Patience and persistence. He had to work on that.

When Ben returned to the ticket stall, Gran had two tickets in her hand: air-conditioned second class tickets in Car C3. They headed out along the platform, past railcars where people would be sitting up on wooden seats all night. At the very end of the train they found Car C3. They climbed the steps into a steamy windowless compartment where wooden bunk beds lined the sides of a narrow passage. Their beds were across from an older man on the lower bunk and a young couple sharing the upper bunk. There was a ladder to their top bunk and heavy blue curtains provided privacy from travellers across the aisle.

Gran checked out the ladder. “You mind taking the top bunk, Ben?”

“Whatever you say,” Ben said.

The man showed them how to lock their backpacks to the chain that ran from the floor to the ceiling to keep them from being stolen, but Gran shook her head. “We nearly lost everything we owned at an awful hotel. I’ll sleep better with my backpack right beside me.”

The couple on the top bunk across from Ben had settled down for the night; he could hear soft whispers and rustling noises that made him think they weren’t finding it too crowded.

“Don’t we get a sheet or a blanket?” Ben asked.

The man said, “Don’t worry, you won’t need anything. It will get so hot up there you’ll bake like tandoori chicken.”

Gran leaned out of her bunk and pointed at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me that’s our air-conditioning?”

Ben stared at a dilapidated wooden fan with two broken blades. It was moving in a slow jerking circle precariously close to his bunk. He decided not to undress and made a pillow out of his rolled up jacket. He shoved his pack under his feet and tried to settle his body on the hard wood.

He lay awake wincing at the erratic motion of the ceiling fan. Only when the blades slid with a jolt toward him did he feel the smallest movement of air, and with it, the heavy smell of too many bodies in too small a space.

The train started with a bump, then rocked and swayed along the track as Ben closed his eyes. No matter how far away you were or what kind of a strange place you were in, you carried your sadness with you. Ben remembered that Dad had promised him a train trip across Canada. “You’ll love it,” he said. “The prairies are something to see. I’ll take you to the place where I grew up. It was a two-grain-elevator town.” Well, that would never happen. Ben could feel himself slide down into sleep.

He was sitting with Dad in the train’s restaurant car. They were at a table with a white cloth and the waiter had just served bacon and eggs on silver plates. Out the window Ben saw a solid blue sky and long golden prairie fields. Dad was pointing to two red grain elevators in the distance. “Let me tell you what it was like growing up in a small town like that …”

Suddenly the train came to a rasping halt and Ben heard voices from outside. His watch said 2:20 a.m.

“You asleep, Ben?” Gran whispered.

“I was in the middle of a dream.”

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“It’s okay. It was only a dumb dream.”

“Ben, you didn’t have stomach cramps at the Taj, did you?”

“No.”

“I’m glad.”

“It’s so hot I’m being cremated up here.”

“It’s going to be a long night.”

The train bolted to a start again. It had been a horrible day. The only thing that would make this trip worthwhile would be if he could surprise Gran by finding Shanti. And for that he needed one person out there who knew her to check in with the school website. Just one person.