There is a shortage of water, Ahmed is told by the policeman, and you must go home and wait for the sirens to call you. And you must bring a proper jug or bottle, no buckets will do, and what a stupid boy you are, standing here with your shredded plastic bag, wasting everyone's time. 
     That bag will not hold a drop, the policeman sneers, and then you will be back at my door in less than a minute, with more water on your face from crying just like a foolish girl than water that bag will ever hold. 
     Whose child are you, to be raised so stupidly? Go away now, before I find my stick. 
     But Ahmed lingers, tracing the shape of the watching eye, the holy signal, in the dust with his toes. The sun is the perfect flame at the center of the holy eye, and it watches him, and the moon is its brother. Ahmed makes a circle inside an X inside a circle. His toe finds a stone. 
     Stand there then, you born fool, stand there and maybe the precious rains will come, the policeman laughs. Wait for your rains, idiot boy. 
     The policeman's laughter is clean and willowy, so unlike his curses. It is almost a kind sound, Ahmed thinks, like music. And will there be rains? Above his head, only gulls gather to circle and scream, no clouds. 
     The policeman goes inside and sits at his desk. Ahmed hears the policeman talking on his telephone. The policeman’s bright voice curls and rolls with patience. Perhaps he is reciting a poem, like teacher in school? Or flattering a woman, a lady. 
     The policeman rises from his chair. The chair lets out a fat squeak. Ahmed can see the top of the policeman's cap bobbing behind the windowsill. He listens while the policeman fills a kettle from the tap, strikes a match and lights a gas jet. The flame makes a tiny pop. 
     Here, Ahmed whispers, here there is water for tea.
     On the street, a noisy pack of older boys form a line. Some carry stones, the taller ones hold boards and shovels over their heads. Ahmed watches, uncertain if the boys are angry or playful. Will they begin a game of war? 
     The street quickly fills with shouts. Grandmothers bring empty bottles, old men wave handkerchiefs. Water, they shout, water today! There are no young men, no girls on the street. Only boys, only the old ones. Water today!
     The boys with boards and shovels crowd the policeman's door. Who will make the first step inside? Ahmed hides under the policeman's window box, picking dead flowers off long, dry stems. 
     These people are bad, Ahmed tells himself, but I am a good boy. The policeman will beat them, maybe he will shoot one or two, but the policeman will not beat me. The policeman will praise me for being patient, he will bring me inside and give me tea, and these boys will be sorry after they are beaten that they did not wait for the water siren. I will sit on the policeman's guest chair and have apples and tea. I will tell him a joke.
     The policeman's door opens slowly. The boys tense, raising their boards and shovels a few inches higher over their heads. The old men nod at the grandmothers, who only grin. Now, someone shouts from a window, Now!
     The policeman steps outside. His pants are loosely fastened, the two ends of his wide belt dangle off his hips. His bare chest is damp and his wet, dark hair stands up straight. Water runs down his neck, and soap clots behind his ears. Bath salts sparkle on the policeman's long arms. All around him, the smell of lavender and pine cools the air. But where is his leather stick?
     The grandmothers look away, and the boys cover their mouths and giggle. The old men shake their handkerchiefs at the boys and walk back into the shade. 
     Ahmed looks at the policeman's bare feet. The bottoms are pink and smooth, clear water runs between his thin toes. 
Ahmed is ashamed of the policeman's weakness, ashamed that he wanted to be the policeman's favourite. 
     The boys fall back and onto each other. They stumble down the street, laughing louder and louder with each step. The policeman clumsily fixes his belt, his eyes refusing to look down. He does not see Ahmed under his window box until the street is empty. 
     Still waiting, he asks Ahmed. 
     Ahmed makes a pit with his toe and buries the brown flower petals in the dust. 
     The policeman bends down to smile at Ahmed. He jostles Ahmed's pointy shoulder with his wide forearm. Ahmed shoves back. The policeman laughs quietly. 
     Soon, boy, soon, the policeman sighs, standing up. Soon enough. 
     The policeman goes back inside, shaking water out of his ears. 
     On the front step a puddle of gray water, a blot the size of two feet, lightens as it sinks into the wooden planks. 
     Without thinking, without shame, Ahmed squats and makes a circle with his lips. The water tastes of mud, shoes, and, curiously, apples. 

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R.M. Vaughan's recent play Camera, Woman is available for purchase from Coach House Books. His other titles can be located at Insomniac Press as well as ECW Press.