*Charlie's P.O.V*

Nightmares. Desi said that when she heard her parents were dead, she thought it was a nightmare.

I told her I understood. But I don't. I don't understand nightmares, how to grieve, or how to advise someone on grieving. For me, making my friends and family happy was my coping mechanism, followed by working because the one thing Sydney taught me was to aim high.

She wanted me to succeed. So I will.

This is why, upon learning that my Brazil trip is actually on Saturday, I don't complain. I nod along to every plan my superiors have for me. They know better. They've been in the fashion industry longer than me.

I return from work to meet Harry, who is surprisingly quiet. Guessing this isn't the time to announce my trip, I quirk, "What's up?"

"Caelen." He sits up, staring at his phone.

I glimpse its screen and frown. "What about her? Are you texting her?"

"Na. Doesn't feel like she will respond." He sighs. "Like she's no more interested in me or something. And Willem said she quit. Left a random mail saying she's travelling."

"Oh. You liked her?"

"Mm." Harry shrugs. "Maybe, cuz I'm not used to rejection, it's rubbing on me the wrong way." Then he stands as though this one rejection is worth a million. "Anyway, you too. What's up?"

"I'll be travelling to Brazil on Saturday."

"So soon?"

I hate when I have to burst his bubble - he must have thought his stay would be fun. "You can still have fun with Leo."

"Oh please," Harry chuckles. "Leo has become a workaholic like you. He won't be around often."

"We are not workaholics," I slip off my shoes. "And um, sorry."

Harry sighs, then, in a split second, winks. "You are gonna be with Monet, huh? -"
I flee before he reuses his favourite torture method - teasing. His laughter trails me until the dog barks, causing him to yelp.

*

I thought travelling would be a piece of cake, but no. Harry packs for me with his taste varying from cool to over-revealing.

Then there is Leo, squinting at my every move, acting like my entire line of male ancestors. "You better not go and starve there or else -"

"Or else what?!"

"I'll deflate you myself."

"Leo, I'm not a balloon!" I puff, running out with my luggage. My taxi is already waiting, so I make a decent goodbye of a smile to my friends instead of the usual, chaotic hug. I'll be gone for a month anyway. It's not that long - and hopefully, it will stay that way.

Monet joins me at the airport. We fly economy class, much to her disappointment, but our designated limousine in Rio makes up for it. This is my first time in Brazil, so every bit of the experience is exhilarating. I take so many pictures, even of the apartment.

"This place is too small," Monet grumbles as we settle in. I am more unnerved that we'll be here alone.

A new day brings a new complaint: time. Monet forgets we are in a new timezone, so she sleeps in. I try to wake her up, but she smacks me across the face.

Before we know it, she's running helter-skelter while I ask the driver to wait. We're almost late for the fitting.

The helter-skelter-ing doesn't cease due to our increased working hours. Thursday, for instance, we didn't even sleep because we had to meet thirteen designers in different locations. There's barely time for leisure, so I don't mind Monet spending her nights out.

*

On Saturday, we have to shoot a commercial for the perfume brand.  I end up on set without Monet because - where is she? I can't search for her and the cameraman is too impatient to wait for her.

Only after doing my scenes do I get to call her. Monet answers with a groggy voice. She's sleeping. Of all times, now she is sleeping. The moment I return to find her on her bed, I gasp.

"Are you sick?"

"Mm?" She turns to me, eyes shut.

I press my palm to her forehead. "Should I get you some medication?"

"It's a hangover. It's nothing."

"It can't be nothing if it makes you miss work." I sit beside her, so she lifts her head. Blinking at me, she inches closer. I back away, and my hand jerks her bag on the bedside table, causing wads of money to spill.

"Don't you dare judge me!" she suddenly yelps.

What?

"That look you are giving me as if you don't do same."

"Do same what?" My question is how to irate Monet further. I can tell from her eyes sizing me.

"I know of your sugar daddy issues, too, so don't pretend. We are in the same boat. You do what you must to pay the bills, right? This modelling thing ain't enough these days, so why not take opportunities-"

"Monet, you are confusing me."

"Igor."

His name sends shivers down my spine. I internally berate myself for this reaction, whereas Monet snarks, "That's his name, wasn't it?"

"Whatever you are thinking is wrong, Monet. He wasn't my anything."

"And yet, he's why you're so popular."

True, but - "You don't understand -"

"Charlie," she groans, "Enough with the long talk. Let's not judge each other so we can live in peace. "And if I'm in the mood, maybe we can have sex."

"No, please."

She chuckles at my answer.

*

This night, this night is an error. This night is me pressed to a bed, eyes shut, ears open for someone.

When I finally hear her - Sil under the bed - and her stifled sobs, I cry. Unable to move my limbs, I cry till Igor shows up and laughs. Then I wake up.

This morning, this morning is an error. This morning is me realising Monet is out again, so my nightmare sounds woke no one.  I ensure my schedule is free before the driver shows me a pharmacy. Upon buying some paracetamol, I let the driver take me around to help clear my head. He does his best. I can't follow every word of his, though; I get lost in thought.

"...would you like to go somewhere exactly?" asks the driver.

I make an incoherent sound till it invokes the question: "Do you know Kaptown Foundation Centre? For the - the trafficked kids."

"Ah, yes. It's quite far, though."

"Oh." I sink in my seat.  The driver gives me a glance, sighs, and makes a turn, the hum of his engine moving me to rest. As soon as it stops, I know he has gone against his better judgement. My feet land on soil, and I thank him before kids engulf me. Speaking of the kids, they are more than my expectations. One tugs me to the front gate, speaking fast Portuguese. I catch some sentences and reply to the best of my ability. My accent humours everyone. One child laughs so hard that I join in.

"CHARLIE!" A grown voice permeates the little ones. Turning, I spot him instantly.

"DAVID! Oh my goodness!" I run up to him. Catching my embrace, he bursts, "What a pleasant surprise! Come, come."

An hour later, we are seated, having a chinwag about the number of people we just greeted.

"The police are doing a great job, considering they have rescued so many," I muse.

David gulps some juice with a slight bob. "Mh. But there are more out there. We have kids who just got in this morning, yet the police claim to have 'won the fight'. Also, remember those rich men who followed Igor? His business advisors and partners?"

I think so. "There was the fat guy, Mr. Joe Yeltsin, ur- but they are dead."

"The others are alive. Take his accountant, for instance. " David hands me a blue file to read.

"Mr Jackson, hm... chartered accountant at ... where I interned." My jaw drops.

David looks confused while I babble, "I interned at that firm during my last college break. They were going to pay for me to write ACCA exams if not for my tight schedule - no, there's no way he works there with a criminal record. Was he even arrested?"

David's head shakes. Folding my arms, I stare at the file for a good minute, then flip it aside and smile at a smallish lad who greets us.  David responds with his sight turned twinkly. I sigh.

"I will see what I can do."

"What? No man." He makes a face. "The best we can do is help those who have been found. You'll get yourself hurt."

"I'll be fine."

"Na." David's concern heightens. I hope my pat assures him; it's the best I can give while pondering my first line of action.

"Charlie, seriously. You've done more than enough. Everyone knows that."

No. It's not about me. "I don't need praise. I need to wake up one day and hear that everything is over. All the remaining children are safe. That's all." I rise. Standing too, David shrugs off a bug and suggests a quick tour to alleviate my mood. The tour works as I find myself laughing at some of the theatrics of the boys. They act like we are superstars, giving us appellations. When I hear a 'Doctor David' amid the other praises, I spin around and quirk.

"Oh my. I forgot to ask about your studies. How is it?"

"Mm," David hums. "It's difficult. Why did no one tell me that becoming a doctor would involve so much? I am either learning or doing yoga with these weirdos -" He points to the older kids at the back. I am surprised by how huge some of them look - they must be older than me.

"They got in from the Yeltsins' centre. That's why they look so healthy. It's nonsense, though. They mostly farm and share their stories with invasive journalists. Mental aid isn't provided beyond two months. As if they can recover from their trauma within that time."

When I grimace to this, David facepalms.  "I've ruined your mood again, haven't I?"

Shaking my head, I text the driver. He returns shortly, so I make a donation and bid everyone farewell, walking to the car with David.

Before leaving, I ask, "Can you send me a softcopy of the file?"

He hesitates. "Fine. I'll try to get details of the others, too."

"That would be nice. Thank you." I hug him and enter the passenger seat, only for David to exclaim, "Oh, I found what you asked for last year!"

"What I asked for?"

"Yes. The address."

My heart stops. "Wait... really?!"

"Yes. Should I send that -"

"Absolutely! Please send it." I clasp his hand. "God bless you. You are a wonderful person."

"So are you, if not more," he chuckles. "Take care, ok? And your Portuguese sounds awful. Let me know when you want to learn the proper way."

"Yes, Dr. David," are my parting words.

*

I reread the softcopy during my next trip. This time, Monet is beside me since we will be watching a runway show. She doesn't say much aside from her occasional quips about my outfit - Harry's perception of a dapper suit.

"Is that a singlet underneath?"

"No. It's a silk tank -"

"It's a singlet," she cuts me off. I won't rebut.

I'm here, but my mind is back in Igor's office, where my eyes first met his accountant.

I'm joining the crowd of guests, like the crowd from Igor's birthday party.

Before I know it, the show has passed.

I sit still, whereas Monet cheers on whoever. Her shouts cease when she realises I've zoned out, but she doesn't alert me until people start standing. Thus begins the afterparty. I blink, and she begrudgingly drags me to a table.

"Hey, snap out of it."

"Sorry."

She snickers at that, fiddling with a glass of champagne. Lights dim as music floats gradually. Resting my cheek on my palm, I sway a little till -

"Krypton Hunt?" A loud tone beckons while its owner grins. "How's Brazil?"

Turning, my heart thrums in a good way. "It's great, ma'am. Highfit too?"

"We are more than great," she says, "and thanks to hardworking lads like your friend, my headaches are practically nonexistent."

"Terrific!"

"You're hoping to see him now, aren't you?"

Before I can affirm this, his hands pinch me. I yelp. Leo laughs, shining me around for a hug. "Why didn't you tell me you are coming here?!"

"Ur, surprise?" He sounds like he didn't plan it, though his facade is beyond smug. "Is that the Monet?" His eyes catch her now across the room.

I hum an affirmative, and Leo waves her just as she tilts. She frowns though returning the gesture.

"OooOh," I jest.

Leo clicks his tongue. "Nope, that's your chick. Plus, she's not my type."

"What is your type?"

He points to me, and I roll my eyes.  "Anyway, is Harry -"

"Here!" The lad himself jumpscares me.