“The British knew how to run a country,” the girl’s father says to the doctor. “Our railways are because of them, you know?”
The doctor has put in two neat stitches, black nylon bunny ears sticking out as if the girl has been wrapped up.
“I can get to Ipoh in an hour!”
The doctor is her father’s age with a bristling iron-grey moustache, glasses perched on the end of his nose, her reflection gleaming in his oily forehead.
“Keep it dry and clean,” he says.
The edges of the cut on her forearm pucker in disapproval.
“There is even a connection to Singapore via the causeway.”
“Is there anything else?” the doctor asks, looking at her father.
“No, no, doctor! You know how these teenage girls are. Thank you so much.”
The wound feels like orange rind – thick, succulent. She pushes a finger into the pink, fresh cut margin. It stings, sour acid. She does it again.
“Doctor, you should go one time. You could be going anywhere when you are on a train. Fantastic feeling, lah.”
In her nose, the sharp tang of disinfectant, the sweet smell of blood.
“Come back in a week – I’ll remove the sutures.”
“Of course, of course doctor. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she is here.”
The girl looks at the silvery line of scars travelling up her forearm. She is making her own railway. She could be going anywhere.
