The Innocents

looked into the room and lowered her voice further, bringing it down to a whisper. “We are going to buy a pair of eyes for Nick.”
“What about the donor? Won’t he go blind?”
“What? No. How good is money if they don’t have eyes. No, sugar, we will buy from two different donors.”
Iris couldn’t accept to do something like that. On top of sounding illegal, her moral compass was too darn perfect to guide her anywhere but towards what was right. But Iris had no intention of waiting years for a legal donor in the US and let Ryatt miss his childhood. She loved her son so much that it hurt her. She would do anything for him. She would even…
Wait! That’s it!
“Loraine.” Iris took hold of her friend’s shoulders. “Does your husband know any unlicensed doctors?”
“He should. Why?”
“I…” Iris dabbed at the corner of her left eye and looked away. “I want to give my own eye to Ryatt.”
“What?” Loraine wriggled out of Iris’s grip and took a step back. “That’s crazy, woman!”
Iris glanced inside the room and shushed her friend.
“No, it is not. If someone on the other side of the planet is willing to give their eyes for money, then it really shouldn’t surprise you that I am willing to do the same for love.”
“But Iris” – Loraine’s voice shook – “you will be blind.”
Iris smiled calmly, and tears of hope escaped. She never felt so confident about something. In fact, this would be the most perfect decision she had ever made in her life.
“You only have one eye,” Loraine said.
“And I am sure Ryatt will use it for the growth of our community and to help people. Because he is a good boy. Always has been such a good boy.” Iris looked at her son. So handsome. So very calm. He was a good boy. A very good boy indeed.
“And he will always remain a good boy.”

Chapter 4
May 18, 1981. 05:41 P.M.
Ryatt sat at the back of a police cruiser, steel restraints digging into his wrists. Call it some sort of intervention—divine or otherwise—or good old fluke: the donut-munchers were really fat. One was an obese black woman who took a good full minute to get out of and into the passenger seat, and one a bald white man with neck bearing enough folds to remind Ryatt of Michelin Man.
While Ryatt’s eye studied them, his hands fiddled with the back of his NBA jersey. It was a ubiquitous navy-blue color, with Detroit 16 printed in front, popular among the teens of his disintegrating metropolis; not that they loved Bob Lanier, the star player in Detroit Pistons, but the loose clothing could conceal anything, from knives and blackjacks to snubbies, and if worn correctly, even hide a sawn-off. Right now for Ryatt, it covered a white T-shirt, not as nefarious a reason but worn for a criminal purpose nonetheless.
Ryatt lifted both shirts. Hooked to the seam of his jeans, where a belt went, was a paperclip. When frisked, the pudgy hooves of the pig groped over it twice but missed it completely as it was clipped to the inside. Horizontally.
Ryatt’s fingertips held the curve of the clip and tugged at it. But the smooth metal slipped under his damp skin. He grabbed hold of the cloth and wiped his hands dry before going back to the clip to perform the same maneuver again.
And voilà! This time he successfully plucked it loose.
Getting a solid grip on it, he straightened one end out. Careful not to move his upper body, he inserted the tip into the keyhole. Then he pressed the clip down on the restraint’s flat surface, before pulling it out. The newly formed L-shaped edge was going to be his free ticket. Well, not exactly an L, it was bent probably at a 60-70 degree.
As Ryatt scanned for any unwarranted movement in front of him, drawing air in became tough. His eardrums felt as if someone had pumped air into his mouth and ballooned his head, making it light. This must be the high his boys were talking about.
As the adrenaline swooshed through his veins, there were a few things going through his mind. Namely failure, which was always a possibility regardless of the hours he’d been practicing with paperclips and handcuffs. There was always a chance that the makeshift key might get twisted beyond repair.
He pinched the edge of the clip where the bend started and jammed it into the keyhole again. He turned it to the left and then to the right; up and then down; finally clockwise and then anticlockwise.
“You feeling okay back there?” the She-Hulk asked, making him halt his actions.
“Wha—” Ryatt cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
He made a conscious effort to regulate his voice, which edged on quavering; he shouldn’t cave. Ryatt learned from his mom never to fear anything. It clouded your judgement, made you stupid, and got you in trouble.
“You feel good about selling drugs?” the lady cop asked.
“I don’t feel good about getting caught,” Ryatt answered and let out an inconspicuous sigh of relief. The pigs hadn’t picked up on what he was up to, so he resumed his work. He needed to keep the chatter going, so that they wouldn’t hear the metallic ticks as he continued operating.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Fourteen, come summer.”
The lady shook her head. “Shame on you children.”
Children? Ryatt almost rolled his eyes. He was caught red-handed, selling crack to a detective in a sting operation. Did children do that?
Whatever. Ryatt couldn’t end up in juvenile. His mom was home alone, thinking he stayed back after school playing football, his long-dead passion. Dead because when his coach had informed Ryatt that he needed to buy shoes, Iris had sold her mother’s pearl necklace, the one she