The Outlaw by Stephen Davies

nightmare."
    "Yes."
    "Did you hear the radio just now? Dad's offered a reward for any information that leads to our rescue."
    Yup.
    "On a scale of one to ten, how sore is your butt right now?"
    Kas put her face in her hands and began to cry softly. "Nine and a half," she said.
    Jake put an arm around her. He did not say anything for fear of crying himself.
    "You always wanted to have a real adventure," sobbed Kas. "How are you liking it?"
    "Not much," said Jake. "I always reckoned that if ever a real adventure came along, I'd be a bit—you know..."
    "A bit what?"
    Jake shrugged and looked away. "A bit braver."
    "A bit more like Mungo what's-his-name?"
    "Yes."
    Hanging above the bed was a shallow wicker basket containing a metal plate, a wooden spoon, a box of matches, and a flashlight. On the white sand at the foot of the bed were two wooden bowls. One was full of milk; the other contained a crusty gray paste. This, presumably, was the
nyiiri
that Paaté had recommended.
    "I suppose we should eat something," Jake said. They had eaten nothing but stock cubes since the banquet. He picked up a handful of
nyiiri
and bit some off. It was cold and chewy but not unpleasant.
    Kas picked up the calabash of goat's milk. "We almost got killed today," she said, talking between sips. "Those men were totally going to shoot us."
    "I still don't get it," said Jake. "If Sor's the leader of his gang, who told him to make sure there were no witnesses? And another thing," he continued, waving a handful of
nyiiri
in the air. "Why is his tattoo not a tattoo?"
    "I don't know." Kas shrugged and lay back on the bed. "My brain hurts."
    "Back in a minute," said Jake. "I'm going for a wash." He crammed one last glob of
nyiiri
into his mouth and crawled through the low doorway into the fierce sunlight. Around the back of the hut there was a bucket of water and soap, just as Paaté had said. Jake crouched naked on the hot sand and used a plastic mug to pour water over himself. The water felt cool on his sunburned skin.
    By the time Jake got dry and dressed, Kas was fast asleep. He lay down beside her and stared up at the wicker basket hanging above his head. Out of habit more than anything else, he took the phone from his pocket and tried switching it on. Nothing. Not even a flicker.
    He glanced down at the calabash of goat's milk and an idea came to him—not so much an idea as a memory, a clip he had seen on YouTube a few weeks before. He jumped off the bed and grabbed the metal plate and the flashlight from the hanging basket. He flicked the flashlight on, just to check that it was working, and then, with shaking fingers, he opened the battery compartment. He slid the batteries out, placed them side by side in the center of the metal plate, and turned his attention to the milk. It would need to be thicker, that milk.
    There was an old gourd by the entrance to the hut—it was about the size of a soccer ball, and its hard exterior had been worn smooth by years of use. Gourds and calabashes came from the same plant family, Africa's answer to Tupperware. Jake poured the goat's milk into the gourd, covered the open neck with his hand, and began to shake. At first the milk sloshed thinly, but after a few minutes of churning, it began to feel different. Soon it was slap-slapping against the sides of the gourd so loudly that it woke Kas.
    "What are you doing?" asked Kas.
    "I'm trying to charge my phone," said Jake. "Don't make that face—I'm being serious. Not a lot of people know this, but milk is a great conductor of electricity."
    Jake tipped over the gourd and strained the contents through his fingers so that he was left with a handful of thick butter. Then he smothered the butter all over the batteries until they were completely sealed in. He took the USB cable from his money belt, dipped one end into the butter, and attached the other end to his phone. For a moment nothing happened. Then the screen of the phone lit up, and a "battery