Peering into the gloom, Mustafa saw a figure with a short torso and bent legs thin as a man’s wrist, topped by enormous knees. It hopped and twisted along on strong arms, bulbous knees upright and cradled on its chest, resting between steps on a leather pad tied beneath the buttocks.
“There’s someone from your part of the desert here,” said the dark-skinned man with the ring. The other drivers looked over at Mustafa.
The boy lifted his head, which had been settled into the mass of his body, slowly elongating his neck, and then dragged around to Mustafa’s end of the bench.
“I know you,” he said cheerfully. “You’re from Sandhey Khan’s Village, aren’t you? You drive the car of Chaudrey Abdul Ghafoor. Do you remember who I am? How can you forget, there aren’t many beauties like me.” He squatted down familiarly next to Mustafa and put his arms toward the fire.