Chapter 19

CHAPTER 4 — BOOK II

 

Lines Drawn

 

(Late October–November 2001, Sydney)

 

The language changed before the rules did.

 

It crept into conversations the way damp crept into walls—quiet at first, then unmistakable once it had settled. Words like security, risk, us and them were repeated until they sounded ordinary, until the effort required to question them felt excessive.

 

At school, the change arrived unevenly.

 

Some teachers corrected it immediately, stopping comments before they could find shape. Others let things pass in the name of discussion. A few avoided the subject altogether, as if silence itself might restore balance.

 

It did not.

 

In one class, a boy raised his hand and asked whether certain people should be “watched more closely now.” The question was framed carefully, the tone polite enough to pass.

 

Geoffrey Awan did not look at Embong. He did not need to.

 

“What do you mean by certain people?” Geoffrey asked.

 

The room shifted.

 

The teacher cleared his throat. “Let’s keep this constructive.”

 

“It is,” Geoffrey said. “I just want to know who he means.”

 

The boy shrugged. “You know.”

 

“No,” Geoffrey replied. “Say it.”

 

Silence expanded until it became uncomfortable.

 

The teacher moved on. The lesson resumed. Nothing was resolved, but the line had been drawn clearly enough.

 

Later, in the corridor, Embong said quietly, “You don’t have to do that every time.”

 

“Yes, I do,” Geoffrey replied. “Otherwise it becomes normal.”

 

Embong considered this. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Just… don’t burn yourself out.”

 

Geoffrey smiled faintly. “I’m not the one being watched.”

 

The mosque altered its routines without announcing them.

 

Doors were checked more often. Volunteers stayed later. People arrived in pairs and left the same way. No one spoke about fear, but everyone adjusted to it.

 

On Fridays, Geoffrey waited.

 

He did not go inside. He sat nearby, reading or pretending to, eyes lifting whenever Embong appeared in the doorway. They walked home together without hurry, as if time itself might reward steadiness.

 

Once, a car slowed beside them. The driver stared for a moment too long, then drove on.

 

Geoffrey felt the familiar heat rise in his chest.

 

Embong exhaled. “Let it go.”

 

“I know,” Geoffrey said. “I just—”

 

“I know,” Embong repeated.

 

At home, Awan spoke less but watched more.

 

He began to ask Geoffrey about school in a way that was both casual and exact. Who had said what. Which teachers intervened. Where conversations ended. It was not interrogation. It was mapping.

 

Delima Galang adjusted again. Curtains drawn earlier. Dinner times fixed. The rhythm of the house tightened, not in fear, but in response.

 

One evening, Geoffrey came home later than expected.

 

Delima looked up from the stove. “Next time, message.”

 

“I didn’t think—”

 

“I know,” she said. “Now you do.”

 

He nodded. “Yes.”

 

It struck him then how little resistance he felt. The rules did not weigh on him. They steadied him.

 

At school, Jenny appeared one afternoon without warning.

 

They sat on the low wall near the sports field, watching students drift past.

 

“People are being strange,” she said.

 

“They were strange before,” Geoffrey replied. “They’re just louder now.”

 

She smiled. “You’ve changed.”

 

He considered this. “I’ve anchored.”

 

Jenny glanced toward the main building. “I like him,” she said, meaning Embong. “He doesn’t perform.”

 

“He doesn’t need to,” Geoffrey said.

 

That night, Geoffrey dreamed of keys.

 

He woke with the image still sharp—keys on a table, keys in his hand, keys that did not open the doors he expected. The feeling lingered long after the dream faded.

 

He sat up, breathing slowly, until the house settled back into shape.

 

From the next room, Embong shifted in his sleep.
The sound grounded him.

 

Golden Century was as it had always been—bright, loud, untroubled by global vocabulary. The tanks still glowed. The waiters still moved as if carrying urgency in their wrists.

 

Nothing inside the restaurant appeared to have shifted.

 

Which, in itself, felt deliberate.

 

Awan spoke to the manager in the same tone as before. The rules were repeated calmly. The nod returned.

 

Seafood arrived in steady procession. Steam lifted. Plates rotated. Conversation rose and fell in manageable waves.

 

No one mentioned school.
No one mentioned the news.

 

At the end, the fortune cookies were set down with the tea.

 

Geoffrey cracked his open first.

 

He read it once.
Then again.

 

“You will soon stand between two worlds.”

 

Embong leaned across. “That’s vague.”

 

“It’s specific enough,” Geoffrey said.

 

Embong opened his.

 

“You must decide what you will carry.”

 

There was a pause.

 

George broke his cookie with careful hands. “They’re printed in bulk,” he said lightly.

 

“Mass-produced destiny,” Embong replied.

 

Awan folded his slip without reading it aloud.

 

Elaine—quietly observant as ever—placed hers beside her teacup.

 

“Fortune cookies are very dramatic,” Embong said.

 

Geoffrey smiled faintly.

 

“Yes,” he said. “They are.”

 

No one returned to the subject.

 

But the slips were not thrown away immediately.

 

At school, the weeks continued to press.

 

A notice went up about conduct. Another about assemblies. Another about reporting concerns. The phrasing was careful, the implications less so.

 

Geoffrey watched how people reacted. Who nodded. Who looked away. Who suddenly spoke more loudly than necessary.

 

The line had been drawn in biro. Thick. Final.

Someone had written NAME above it in block letters.

Below the line, in pencil so light it could be denied, Geoffrey added a mark—a tiny arrow pointing nowhere in particular.

When Embong saw it, he did not erase it.

He extended the arrow.

Geoffrey did not try to fix any of it.

He learnt instead where he stood.

 

He did not try to fix any of it.

 

He learned instead where he stood.

 

One afternoon, as they walked home, Embong stopped.

 

“You’re tired,” he said.

 

Geoffrey laughed quietly. “I’m fine.”

 

“You’re carrying everyone,” Embong replied. “You don’t have to.”

 

Geoffrey hesitated. Then: “If I don’t, who will?”

 

Embong met his gaze. “You’re not alone.”

 

The words landed differently now.

 

They walked on.

 

By November, the city had adjusted to its new vocabulary. The tension did not disappear. It normalised.

 

Inside the house, the opposite occurred.

 

Small gestures accumulated: a plate set without asking, a question answered before it was finished, a name used without hesitation.

 

One evening, Awan addressed Geoffrey directly.

 

“You’re part of this household,” he said, not ceremonially, not softly. “That means we speak up for one another. But we also rest.”

 

Geoffrey nodded. “Yes.”

 

It was the first time Awan had said it that plainly.

 

Later, Embong said, “He means it.”

 

“I know,” Geoffrey replied.

 

For the first time since the world had arrived uninvited, Geoffrey felt something loosen inside his chest.

 

The lines had been drawn.

 

Not by fear.
Not by anger.
But by choice.

 

And he knew, with a clarity that did not require courage, exactly which side he was on.

 

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