In the hands of a lesser writer, this might have been the big reveal, you know? But me, I don’t prefer gimmicks. I want my work to speak for itself, the typewritten words oozing meaning, the way my tongue seems incapable of doing.

Ping. Atlas Abdulla was rudely awakened, his vitals flashing on his retina. His head pounded as he wiped the sweat off his brow.

The scent of cumin and coriander filled the small apartment as Shahriar Aman stirred the bhuna khichuri, the wooden spoon moving in practiced circles against the bottom of the heavy-bottomed pot.

Before I met him, I figured that anyone with the audacity to name himself “Atlas” must be terribly pretentious, terribly tortured, or both.

The blood pools in my palm like spilled wine, warm and thick, dripping between my fingers onto the subway floor where it mingles with twenty years of New York grime.