You Never Know Who is the Bad Guy (2)

As Sundori settled into the minivan with the two women and the man from the earlier meeting, the vehicle gently rumbled to life. This journey marked Sundori's first foray away from the place she had called home for the past seven years. The driver, the vehicle's sole other occupant apart from their small group, navigated the road ahead. Sundori noted the absence of other children destined for the new school, a curious observation that swiftly faded from her mind as sleep enveloped her in its warm embrace. The road's unevenness oddly contributed to the comfort of the minivan, transforming it into an unexpected cradle of slumber.

Time blurred until one of the women gently roused Sundori, the vehicle having come to a halt. Half-awake, Sundori nodded at the suggestion to use the restroom and followed the woman into a building. Even with her limited experiences, Sundori recognized the hallmarks of a school—the playground at the front, a large blackboard boasting the "stars of the term," and rooms labeled with subjects and grades, all reminiscent of her previous school. 

After returning to the van, Sundori was instructed to stay put while the woman rejoined the others inside the building. Left with only the driver for company, the man eventually moved to sit beside her, offering a bottle of water with a kind smile. It was then that Sundori really noticed the driver. Beyond his age, which was visibly greater than that of the other adults, his most defining feature was the absence of his left ear, left unhidden by hats or hair. 

His smile broadened into a grin as he caught Sundori's gaze locked onto his missing ear. "Are you wondering about my ear? Does it scare you to see a man with only one ear?" he inquired, his tone light yet curious.

Sundori's response was as thoughtful as it was sincere. "No, I am not scared. I have seen dogs with three legs, cats with one eye, frogs with one arm. They live just fine. And since you're driving, I guess it's not that big of a deal," she remarked, her voice steady, her face serious.

The driver's initial reaction, a mix of surprise and amusement at being compared to animals, was quickly masked by a cough meant to hide his fleeting embarrassment. Yet, there was a note of relief in realizing Sundori wasn't repulsed by his appearance—a common reaction among children her age. 

Finding Sundori's perspective refreshingly candid, the driver felt compelled to share more about himself. "I wasn't always like this. A bomb took my ear and injured my leg during a mission. That's why I can't run anymore and got reassigned to driving," he explained, ending his brief recount with a laugh that seemed to brush off the gravity of his injuries. 

Sundori, sensing a kinship with the driver, ventured a guess, "Did the bad guys do this to you?"

The driver paused, his expression turning complex as he weighed his words carefully. "Bad guys, well, it's complicated," he began, his voice trailing off as if navigating through a maze of memories. Gathering his thoughts, he looked directly at Sundori, his voice earnest, "Young girl, in this line of work, you'll meet people whose appearances can deceive. The villain might seem friendly, while a hero could be marked by scars. Don't rush to judge people based on what you see."

Sundori absorbed his words with the same intensity she had her mother's teachings, recognizing in them a life lesson she would carry forward. Just as she had vowed never to cry to earn affection, she now understood the complexity of human nature, a wisdom imparted by the driver's simple yet profound advice. 

As Sundori mulled over the driver's life insights, their conversation was interrupted by the return of the two women and the man, accompanied by a boy whose appearance spoke volumes of hardship. Dressed in garments that barely held together, the boy bore fresh wounds on his face, traces of blood a stark contrast to his dirt-streaked skin.

The driver resumed his position behind the wheel, and the newcomers settled in the rear of the van, embarking on the next leg of their journey without further delay.

The man gestured towards Sundori, introducing her to the boy, "This is Sundori." He then pivoted towards her, adding, "And Sundori, this is Kiran. From now on, you're schoolmates. You're to support each other, yet also brace for the rivalries that will inevitably arise. Understood?" His directive left little room for response before he diverted his attention to a document he'd begun to scrutinize. Without waiting for feedback from the children, he pulled out a document and started reading. 

Seated side by side in the van's last row, an awkward silence enveloped Sundori and Kiran until Sundori, driven by a blend of curiosity and the desire to connect, initiated a conversation. "I'm Sundori, seven years old. What about you?"

Kiran's eyes were large, yet within them danced a keen sharpness, a vigilant alertness that seemed to capture and dissect every detail of his surroundings. In stark contrast, Sundori possessed an innocence that seemed almost naïve. Upon hearing Sundori's attempt at conversation, Kiran's brow furrowed, and his response came in a voice laced with a chill of reluctance: "He already mentioned our names. And I am older than you." A subtle tilt of his jaw underscored his reference to the man at the front.

Kiran was small and skinny. No one could tell if he was older than Sundori and by how many years. Despite Kiran's standoffish demeanor, Sundori wasn't deterred. Her empathy drawn to the visible marks of distress on his face, she inquired softly, "What happened to your face? Does it hurt?" To Sundori, the proclamation of their schoolmates status was an unspoken bond of friendship, an opportunity she was determined to nurture.

Kiran's gaze lingered on Sundori, his expression a fluid dance of emotions—morphing from hostility to defensiveness, then settling into confusion. He found himself adrift in uncertainty, struggling to discern if this young girl genuinely harbored concern for him, was poised to mock him, or, in his vulnerability, intended harm. Eventually, his scrutiny softened, conceding, "It's alright, I'm accustomed to it," though he did not answer the part "what happened".

Sundori, in a gesture of instinctive kindness, leaned in and gently blew on his wounds, a simple act of comfort she had often applied to her own minor injuries. "This helps ease the pain. I do it whenever I get hurt," she explained, a testament to her resilience and solitary coping mechanisms.

Kiran tensed, instinctively preparing to defend himself from what he misconstrued as a potential threat, his body coiling, eyes sharpening. Yet, recognizing the innocence behind Sundori's action, he relaxed slightly, acknowledging her gesture with a cautious nod, though he remained silent.

Sensing Kiran's reluctance to engage further, Sundori resigned herself to the possibility that friendship with Kiran might require patience. A fleeting sadness crossed her mind before she succumbed to sleep once more.

Throughout the journey, Sundori awoke intermittently, each time noting Kiran's vigilant demeanor—his wary glances at the man, his intense observation of the passing scenery, his grip tight on his threadbare pants.

When she awoke for the final time, night had enveloped the world outside their window. Shortly thereafter, the minivan slowed to a stop. They arrived at their destination: the new school.