Thousand: Six Hundred Eighty-Four

I want for Christmas, the girl thinks, is a dollar bill. When she is spotted by the locals and quickly taken to one of the tents, she doesn’t understand the language but the sun-darkened faces are smiling. If they are puzzled or confused by her presence, by her not-so-crisp white shirt and pleated trousers, or by the words she speaks, they don’t seem bothered. Sipping at a skin bottle of tepid, slightly sour water, resting against a pile of rugs, the girl finally notices that her angel is missing. “Figures,” she says. “I bet he knew the lingo.” A woman