Animals

The color drains from Vid’s face as he grabs his chest and stares at us across the table. Matt and Dean stop talking. For a second I think it’s a heart attack. No one moves. Then he starts checking his pockets. A few minutes ago he was smirking, explaining how microdosing gives him superpowers. The CIA would have to waterboard me before I said something like that to a coworker. We were having a nice lunch on the company dime and he had one beer.

“My phone was here,” Vid says finally, pointing to the empty space beside his plate. 

A salad bowl, a crust of bread, and an empty beer snifter sit there. His phone doesn’t. Vid, Matt, Dean, and I are sitting on the terrace of a well-known restaurant in downtown Belgrade. We’re all innovation managers in the R&D department of our multinational.

Vid empties his pockets onto the table. A wallet, a vape pen, a vial of beige powder. His erratic behavior draws a few looks from nearby patrons. The restaurant is busy as always. I nod at one of the onlookers, but I’m unable to hide an uncomfortable smile.

“Mhhh, no, no, no,” he says to Matt and Dean. His face shifts from pale to bright red. “That little bi—”

“Who?” I ask, leaning closer to Vid.

“Some girl came by our table while you were inside,” Matt replies.

“She was asking for donations. Shoved papers and photos in our faces,” Dean says, “I bet it was a distraction.”

Yes. The old switcheroo, courtesy of a con-greet committee. Matt and Dean are visiting from the UK, so they don’t know the routine, and the way they look and talk makes them stick out. Perfect marks. But Vid is local. He should’ve known better. Doesn’t matter now.

“I need my fucking phone man,” Vid says with a shaky voice. “Everything’s there. Emails, 2FAs, my banking app. I’ll have to file an incident report, explain to the admins what happened, and they’re always antagonizing me. I have an important meeting tomorrow. What the fuck?” He puts his elbows on the table, one elbow in the greasy plate, and buries his face in his palms.

“Call it,” Matt says to Dean. “Maybe it’s still here.”

Dean already has his phone out. “It’s ringing,” he whispers, but nothing reaches us.

I can fix this. I just don’t want to. 

The waiter slips past our table with a tray stacked too high for one hand. Beer snifters, cappuccino cups, smoothie glasses, water bottles. He moves like he’s made peace with the work. No complaints, no hurry, even though he’s the only one serving the terrace. What feels like chaos to us is just another afternoon to him. My Beast stirs. It’s been quiet for weeks. It’s already drafting the story I’ll tell myself if I get involved in this.

I look up at the sky. Yesterday it rained. Today, a few airplanes trace fuzzy white threads overhead. The people high above are oblivious to the case of the missing phone. Vid’s talking with the others. I can’t hear them. I have a new prototype to test next week. It took three layers of approval to get there. Every now and then I try to make sense of innovation management, and whether innovation can be managed at all. My gut tells me no. My paycheck tells me to shut up and stop cosplaying a philosopher.

Who am I to solve other men’s problems? Ever since I came back to Belgrade I’ve kept my head down. I’ve made peace with the work. Nine to five. Family. Routine. I know that's not how you leave a mark. But I don’t want attention. I don’t want these kinds of situations. I have a daughter now. I’m not the one to correct this crooked age. Life gave me just enough validation and comfort to keep me around, but not enough to make me appreciate it.

I can fix this.

I’ve been back at the table for about two minutes. To the north is Kneza Mihaila, the main pedestrian street. To the west, the Sava River. And to the south, the farmers market, then the migrant camp, the park in front of the Economics Faculty, where prostitutes wait for clients, and the main bus station. Whoever took Vid’s phone is heading that way. I know I would.

“How did she look and where did she go?” I ask.

“Niklas,” Vid mumbles. “It’s fine.”

“Short hair. White T-shirt. Jeans. Twelve, thirteen,” Matt says. “She went that way.” He points toward the alley leading to Kneza Mihaila.

She might’ve escaped north, but she’ll head south, toward the main bus station and the patchwork of plywood shacks by the river. Dean’s still on the phone, waiting for this to be neatly resolved.

“Go to the police station near the National Assembly,” I say. “It’s a ten-minute walk from here. See if they can track the phone. I’ll try to catch up with her.” I’ll probably regret this.

Matt stares at me. “You think you can find her?”

“I don’t know.”

I leave Matt, Dean, and Vid at the table and move quickly toward the Zeleni Venac farmer’s market. 

It’s easy to survive a hectic day. Most people are capable of doing that. The hard part is the aftermath and having to live with the version of yourself that survives.

The light’s red at Brankova Street. I stop at the curb with a few smokers, old people, schoolkids and a woman rocking a stroller with one foot. Traffic in front of me builds a wall of hot exhaust. My stomach turns. For a moment I consider heading back, telling Vid and the others I tried, and letting the phone become a police report, a ticket number, an IT inconvenience that resolves itself.

If she’s twelve, thirteen, she’s probably not alone. Someone had to groom her and put her up to this. I tap my pockets without meaning to. No weapons or sharp objects. Just my body, a bit soft from office chairs and home cooking, dressed like a man who solves problems by scheduling meetings. Designer sneakers. Dark jeans. A light-blue shirt and a gray blazer, all chosen to look expensive without looking loud. The numbers above the crossing tick down. 14, 13, 12. I could still turn around.

The light turns green. I cross. The stairs from Brankova down to Zeleni Venac leak heat, diesel and rot. By the time I reach the bottom, the city is already wearing a different mask. God came back to earth and said he didn’t remember creating this place. I cut straight through the market instead of skirting it toward the bus station. If she’s here, she’ll surface.

If I didn’t know better, I could swear I was in Istanbul. At the market entrance a man squats behind socks, phone chargers, lighters, and half-broken toys arranged like evidence on a blanket. Inside, people push past, an old woman weighs tomatoes, more stands blur into groceries and trifles. A black cat sleeps in a shallow crate on one of the stands. No time to pet it. Well. Maybe just a few scratches. Pat pat. Hands everywhere. Testing fruit, filling plastic bags. Someone shouts nonsense. Someone else laughs too hard. The salad I ate ten minutes ago was probably bought here for the price of a used lighter. But then it was presumably washed, arranged, rebranded, and sold back with a linen napkin and imported olive oil. Everything useful passes through hands like these before it becomes respectable.

My stomach tightens. Probably the food and walking too fast. Or my body knows something my head still needs to figure out.

“You seen a girl,” I say. “Short hair. White T-shirt.”

The woman behind the stand shrugs. She’s small, dressed in black. “Ay, don’t,” she says, but I’m already moving.

I get out on the opposite side of the market. To my left is the calm of the park. Green grass and a few alley cats stretched in the shade. To my right, Kamenička, a pedestrian street that slopes down into migrants, prostitutes, and more chaos. I head down.

Someone in a white T-shirt turns the corner ahead of me. Short hair. Jeans. Holding rolled up papers in her hand. Walking beside her is a chubby guy, a bit shorter than me, in a gray T-shirt and black sweatpants. She looks misplaced next to him. My stomach tightens again and this time there’s no doubt why. I stay a few steps behind. When I catch up, I hear him talking to her in a language I don’t understand. I pick up the pace until I’m shoulder to shoulder with him. He’s still talking, his head turned toward her. I hope I’m not wrong about this.

“Hey, friend,” I say. “I’ll need my colleague’s phone back.”

He flinches, then looks at me with a sour smile and raised eyebrows. His brown hair is messy, and his neatly trimmed mustache stands out on his chubby face. The girl grabs his hand and slips behind him as we keep walking down Kamenička.

“It’s fine. No worries,” I say, more to her than him. “I respect the hustle. But the phone’s locked. You won’t get much for it, and it’ll be a huge pain in the ass for my colleague to recover everything.”

“Sir, you are mistaken,” he says in a strange accent, picking up the pace.

“It’s fine. Stop for a second. Lemme show you something.” We stop in the middle of the street. I take my phone out of my left pocket and open the maps app. “Look. I know you have it. I’ve been tracking it. See? That’s us.” The pin shows our location, so that part is true, but I don’t know if he understands the bluff, or if I’ve picked the wrong person.

“I don’t want trouble, sir,” he says, raising his hands. The girl stays hidden behind him.

“No trouble. I’ll buy it back from you. Save everyone the hassle.” I put the phone into my left pocket and take out my wallet from the right. One fifty-euro bill. Damn. I’d planned on giving him ten, maybe twenty, enough to make it reasonable, not charitable. Still, I take the bill out. I had far bigger blows. “I’ll buy it back,” I say again.

He looks at the money and gives me that sour smile again. “Sir, I have a family,” he replies finally. “Hundred?”

“The little one’s cute.” I smile back. “But I only have fifty,” I say, holding the bill out. He shrugs and makes a face. I keep smiling, but my jaw locks. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but I cut him off. “Take the fucking money and give me the phone. Now.” The girl tugs his arm. People passing us on the street glance over. I don’t care. He pulls the phone from his pocket. I snatch it from his hand and press the bill into his chest. “Fuck outta here,” I say. They hurry down toward the Economics Faculty without looking back.

The street clamor returns. Voices. Traffic. This feels familiar. It’s been a while. I stand there with what I hope is Vid’s phone, in my hand. It’s warm. I didn’t ask for another adventure, but something wouldn’t let me turn away. I try not to picture the girl tomorrow. Or the day after. Forced onto the same street, doing the same routine. Will the next person who catches her be as forgiving as me? Will the fat bastard be there to protect her as readily as he pushed her into this? My Beast grins.

Skinny little puppy. Big brown eyes. You felt the pull to save her. Because she’s innocent. Because she didn’t start out like this. That’s the story you like. But if she’s not to blame, why is he different? Did he wake up one morning and decide to live like that? Or is he innocent too? Just harder to look at.

I know that guy wasn’t born either good or bad, and he doesn’t deserve my judgment. I just can’t make myself see him that way. He’s an individual. He made choices. If everything is the system, then nobody is responsible. Not him. Not Vid. Not me.

I need to get back. But what do I tell my coworkers? How do I explain this in a coworker-friendly way? I’ll say I kept calling the phone, some guy picked up, and we met at the market. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d believe me. I call Vid’s phone, answer it myself, let the line stay open for a while, then hang up and put Vid’s phone in my back pocket.

They’re probably at the police station. I call Dean. “Hey, I’m heading back. Where are you guys?”

“Niklas, we’re at the restaurant,” he replies.

At the restaurant? Are these people stupid, or am I? “You didn’t go to the police station?”

“We were just about to. Any luck on your side?”

“Yeah. I got the phone. Wait for me there.”

“You got—” he starts yelling, voices rising around him.

I hang up. I’m not mad. Just a little disappointed. I thought this was important.

My legs take me back the way I came. Through the market again, past the tomatoes and the shouting, the muted colors and the white noise. The black cat. Tap tap. People move out of my way, their faces blur at the edges. Up the stairs, into the heat, into the smell of traffic. I wait at the red light on Brankova, watching the numbers count down. Then across, then uphill, toward Topličin Square, toward the restaurant, toward the place where this is supposed to fit into a sentence or two.

At the restaurant, Vid, Matt, and Dean are still at the same table. It’s been cleared. Only beers in front of them now. For a moment I try to remember how long I’ve known them. Dean spots me, stands, points, then starts a slow clap. People turn. Everyone smiles. I try to hide a smile. My jaw’s locked.

I hand the phone to Vid. “Be careful next time,” I say. It comes out flat.

He unlocks it, checks the screen, and nods once. I tell myself he’d do the same for me. Matt drags a chair over with his foot.

“How the hell did you pull this off?” Dean says.

I shrug and sit down. The chair legs scrape against pavement. I lace my fingers together and crack my knuckles, then immediately regret it. They’re all looking at me. Examining the specimen.

“Have a beer?” Dean says, already waving at the waiter. The waiter doesn’t look our way. He keeps moving, tray tilted, eyes fixed on the next table.

My stomach turns again. I don’t feel like drinking, but I’m not in the mood to explain myself. “Yeah, sure.”

Vid is still staring at the screen. Scrolling. Tapping. I get paid the same as this guy. Not jealousy. I don’t envy him any more than I envied that chubby bastard down in Kamenička. He found a way to survive. So did Vid. People do what they have to do. I did too.

Matt leans in, studying me. “Goddamn, mate… Who are you?”

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