The Uber's backseat smelled faintly of citrus air freshener and Zaliyah's impending nervous breakdown.
Outside the tinted windows, the highway signs flashed past toward the airport. Inside, Zaliyah sat with his arms crossed and his long white hair pulled over one shoulder. He was furiously swiping across his phone screen, his thumb practically burning a hole through the booking app.
*Online booking closed. Please purchase at the airport counter.*
L
He had known about this trip for two weeks. He had packed sunscreen, adapters, a first-aid kit, and enough wet wipes to sanitize a small country. He had simply forgotten to book the actual flights.
"Is it too late to cancel everything?" Zaliyah muttered with deep self-loathing. His nose twitched in annoyance as he refreshed the screen for the fifth time. His long hair brushed against his collarbone.
Beside him, Sylaris said no words.
She was sprawled across two-thirds of the leather seat, her chubby legs kicking the air. Her long white hair was styled in two messy Dutch braids, framing large ice-blue eyes that were currently glazed over in a pop-culture trance. She had over-ear headphones clamped to her head, and even from two feet away, the tinny bass of "Gnarly" was leaking through the ear cushions like a sonic drill.
She was singing at full volume, one fist raised like the Uber was an arena and the driver had bought a front-row seat. Sylaris chanted along to the chorus, perfectly off-key, totally unbothered by the cosmic panic happening to her left.
Zaliyah cast a sideways glance at his daughter. With her round, pinchable cheeks and taunting little smirk, she looked like a cherub designed by a mischievous deity specifically to test his blood pressure.
"Sylaris," Zaliyah said, keeping his tone clipped and cool. "Sylaris, look at me."
Silence. Just a subtle bobbing of her braids.
Zaliyah dragged a hand down his face. "We are going to the counter. Which means the woman behind the desk will ask where we're going, and I need an answer."
"Should we land in Egypt first, or do you want to start somewhere else?" he asked, tapping the glass of his phone screen. "Because if I don't book this suite in Cairo within thirty seconds, we are staying in an airport lounge."
Sylaris didn't answer. She just kept nodding along to the beat, mouthing the words with dramatic hand gestures.
Zaliyah exhaled deeply. "Egypt it is, then."
Snap.
She yanked her headphones down so fast he flinched. Even from across the seat, he could hear the tinny thump of "Gnarly" leaking out.
"Do you know why Manon is the best one?" she demanded.
"I did not ask—"
"Because she doesn't *try*, Dad." She twisted in her seat, hands flying. "Everyone else is doing the choreography, and Manon is just living in it. She stands there being cool, and you're like, oh. So *that's* what confidence looks like. It's honestly not fair." She flopped back, satisfied.
"Oh, look who has returned to the mortal realm," Zaliyah drawled, leaning back against the seat with his arms crossed, his slender frame sinking into the upholstery. "I talk to you for ten minutes, you act deaf. But the second I make an executive decision, suddenly you're an air traffic controller."
Sylaris rolled her eyes, propping her hands on her hips. "And I don't care what country we hit first, because it's her continent. If KATSEYE can globalize, then so can we!"
"Right. Because KATSEYE also travels without pre-booked airline tickets," Zaliyah said, returning to his phone. "Roll your eyes at me one more time and I am redirecting this flight to a remote monastery."
"You wouldn't," she smirked, sticking her tongue out. "You'd get bored in two hours."
Zaliyah opened his mouth to deliver a retort, but paused. She was right. He hated dull places. Sighing softly, he finally managed to secure the master suite in Cairo, muttering, "Heaven grant me strength."
To understand how Zaliyah ended up being dragged across the globe by a chubby nine-year-old, one had to look back two weeks, to Sylaris's bedroom.
*Two Weeks Ago, in Sylaris's Bedroom*
The world map on her wall hung crooked, bristling with old pins from every trip she had ever demanded and every one he had refused. She stood on her bed in her socks, a pushpin in her hands.
"I'm throwing it with my eyes closed," she announced. "Wherever it lands, that's where we go. No arguing."
"Throw it already."
She spun around three times with her eyes closed and threw it at the wall.
The pin landed smack in the middle of Africa.
"Do you want to change it?" Zaliyah asked cautiously, eyeing the massive landmass. "You said you missed Europe."
"No!" Sylaris declared, her eyes sparkling with determination. "We go to Africa!"
"It's a continent with fifty-four countries. So where exactly are we going?"
She studied him for a second. Then she jabbed a finger at the map, three times. "East. North. West. Kenya. Egypt. Senegal."
Before Africa, however, there had been the chaotic whirlwind of their Asian warm-up tour. Zaliyah still had psychological scars from those photo dumps.
At the airport counter, he had finally secured two last-minute first-class tickets to Cairo. Now, in the lounge, he closed his eyes, and vivid, horrifying memories flashed before them like a modern art disaster film.
*In Thailand.*
Zaliyah had been standing outside a luxury mall in Bangkok, wearing a silk shirt, his long white hair flowing around his shoulders, his delicate soft facial features glowing under the streetlights. A group of locals had walked by, stopped, and stared.
"Deī̌yw na nạ̀n p̄hū̂chāy h̄rụ̄x p̄hū̂ h̄ỵing kạn næ̀?" (Wait, is that a man or a woman?) one local street vendor had muttered to another in Thai.
"C̄hạn khid ẁā k̄heā pĕn nāy bæb fæchạ̀n ra dạb ḥị xen d̒" (I think he's a luxury fashion model), a woman had said, snapping photos. "Dū cmūk k̄heā s̄i! Dū khorngs̄r̂āng kradūk nạ̀n s̄i! K̄heā h̄emụ̄xn h̄lud xxk mā cāk rạnwey̒ ley" (Look at his nose! Look at the bone structure! He's straight off the runway!)
Then an elderly lady pointed at his hair and said, "Suay mak! Suay mak!" (So beautiful!)
Within three minutes, a crowd of thirty people had swarmed him, begging for autographs and modeling poses. Zaliyah had stood there, utterly bewildered, clutching a bag of mango sticky rice while people chanted "Nāy bæb" at him. Sylaris had stood on the curb, eating an ice cream, casually watching her father get harassed by fashion enthusiasts without lifting a finger to help.
Zaliyah snapped back to reality as the flight attendant announced boarding for Cairo. He rubbed his temples.