sprinted. “Bye!”
Only when he was partway to his flat did Zaf realize he’d failed in his mission to kill his niece, or even properly shout at her. But every time he thought about it, he saw Fluff’s happy little face and heard her calmly explaining how she’d actually done him a favor, and he felt bad about telling her off.
Which didn’t mean she was right. Obviously.
Zaf wandered out of the neighborhood he’d grown up in, a working-class one that his family had always refused to leave, occupied by Pakistanis like them, other South Asians, West Africans, Jamaicans. His own city apartment was less diverse and way less familiar, but on the plus side, he didn’t have any neighbors to make nice with. Or make eye contact with. These things swung in roundabouts.
As he moved through the city streets, passing the glowing signs and lit-up windows of chicken shops and dive bars, he muttered under his breath, “This is not a good thing. This is not a good thing. And what the hell is Dani going to say?” He had no idea, but he didn’t think women generally appreciated becoming social media sensations without their consent. This could affect her work or something. And Zaf knew her well enough to realize that if that happened, she’d sneak into his flat and slit his throat as he slept.
But when he got home and checked his phone again, he was . . . thoughtful. Fatima had been right about the boom in his follower count. There were more comments and likes under his pictures than ever, most people actually interacting with the content or asking questions about the nonprofit. Other people were commenting #DrRugbae and IS THIS REALLY ZAFIR ANSARI?, which kind of ruined the effect—but no one, he noticed, had posted anything about his “tragic past.” People used to call him that all the time. Tragic.
He pushed that thought away, along with the flare of old, aching anger it caused, and switched over to Twitter. Typed in that ridiculous hashtag. Took a breath, propped his legs up on the sofa, and started reading.
He scrolled until his eyes blurred and saw not one mention of his brother or his dad, not one mention of death and pain. Fatima’s earlier words came back to him, and something hopeful and daring and a little bit ridiculous stirred in his chest. Then he switched over to his DMs, scowled at the influx of messages from strangers—and saw, buried in the chaos, one from the Nottingham Post.
Zaf stared. Blinked, hard. Stared some more. He tapped the account, noticed the verified check mark, and fought a spike of anxiety before hopping off the sofa and starting to pace.
“Open it,” he told himself. “Just open it. If it’s some bullshit question, you can delete it and block them. It’s social media. You have control over social media.”
Well—you did unless someone filmed you salivating over a work friend and posted it online and it went viral. But still. He had control over this. So he sat down and opened the message, and his old, habitual nerves were replaced by a fizzy, sunshine sort of shock. No invasive questions about dark times or personal struggles here—just invasive questions about his nonexistent relationship.
Hi Zafir,
Hope you’re well. Our team is planning to cover the adorable #DrRugbae video, and we were hoping you and your girlfriend might have something to add before we publish. Is there anything you’d like to say about the video? We’d love to mention all the good you’re doing with Tackle It, too.
Holy shit. They’d love to mention Tackle It? Maybe Fatima was right. Zaf tapped out the first few words of a response, then deleted it all at once.
You and your girlfriend. That’s what the message said: they thought Dani was his girlfriend. If he replied, he’d need to correct them. But if he corrected them, why the fuck would they write about this hashtag bullshit? Why would they write about Tackle It? And how would he do just what Fluffy had said and . . . and change people’s associations?
He didn’t know. But the hopeful stirring in his chest was a roar now, and the half-formed, impossible idea in his mind was so wrong it made him feel kind of dizzy, and he couldn’t make himself type out the words She’s not my girlfriend. He couldn’t. Through the tangle of fevered, guilty thoughts, one thing stood out nice and clear: he needed to talk to Dani.
But first, he