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be considered primitive by American standards, but it was one of the most active places in Kenya. Stalks of wiry grass stuck up through cracks in the worn asphalt, and potholes dotted the surface like a teenager’s acne. Time slowed to a more manageable pace as she took in the unhurried tempo of the workers. She threw her rucksack over her shoulder and sauntered down the steps.
    “Do you know this driver?” she asked Sara.
    “The Mombasa Serena sent him. They always do when we visit.”
    “I mean do you trust him?”
    “Of course, he’s worked with the hotel for years.” Sara gave her a look of skepticism mixed with annoyance. “Don’t be so paranoid.”
    “Good. Would you mind getting two rooms in your name when you arrive? I’d prefer a second floor, ocean view. I’ll meet you there later. I have to arrange for some other supplies and equipment.”
    Without waiting for a response, Zak sprinted to the nearest cab. She could finally take a chest-expanding breath without the tantalizing fragrance of Sara’s perfume floating up her nostrils. As the taxi pulled away, the sights and smells of Mombasa were much the same as she remembered. The air reeked from an overtaxed septic system, too many bodies too close together, and the lingering smoke of burning wood. Smells void of temptation. This island of seven hundred thousand inhabitants bristled with activity, especially around the resort areas and the busy import/export docks.
    Snippets of conversations in Swahili, Arabic, Chinese, and Italian drifted into the vehicle. The blend of distinctive dialects comforted Zak with its familiarity, but at the same time disturbed her as she recalled the history of dissidence that remained an intangible undercurrent between these peoples. But Africa was a continent of contrasts, conflicts, and contradictions.
    Zak remembered the hot and cold exchanges with Sara on the plane. Did her soon-to-be-ex client find everyone as difficult to get along with, or was Zak the problem? Leaving her at the airport with a half-assed explanation certainly wouldn’t help. But Zak couldn’t tell Sara that she’d left the Serena Mombasa Resort persona non grata after a business stay three years ago. That would require more information than Zak was at liberty to divulge. She couldn’t, shouldn’t, and wouldn’t tell Sara Ambrosini many things. Rule number one of the Company: Don’t admit anything, don’t imply anything, don’t say anything. The less Sara knew the safer they’d both be. That thought saddened Zak as she looked out the car window and another piece of her soul locked down.
    The cab driver inched along streets lined with shanty shops displaying everything from live chickens to trinkets for sale. Aggressive salesmen bled over into the narrow road, making two-way vehicular traffic precarious. A young girl ran alongside their vehicle. “Madam, look. You buy. Twenty dollars American.” The child waved a fistful of bead necklaces, a broad smile lighting her dark features.
    Zak handed her several bills, waved off the tendered item, and watched her run ahead to the car in front of them. She admired the ingenuity and determination of the African people. Children in this culture had family jobs by the age of six. Their chores, carrying water for the garden, pulling weeds, or herding goats, often contributed to the household income and strengthened familial and communal ties so vital to their traditions.
    Memories of her family’s annual working vacations in Africa when she was a child tightened her chest with feelings she had not allowed to surface in years. She and her parents had interacted like the components of a precision instrument. She had calmed and distracted the children who came to her father’s makeshift clinic while he and her mother tended to their medical needs. Her role had seemed so vital that she’d briefly considered following her father into medicine.
    But she succumbed to the Company’s aggressive recruiting