Excerpt from The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Downstairs, he went through the beaded curtain and found Avtar gulping straight from the tap. The back of his uniform read crunchy fried chicken. Randeep stood in the doorway, weaving one of the long strings in and out of his fingers. There was a calendar of tropically naked blonde women on the wall by the fridge. Someone would have to get a new one soon.

Avtar turned off the tap, though it continued to drip. "Where is everyone?"

"Asleep."

"Did someone do the milk run?"

"Don't think so."

Avtar groaned. "I can't do everything, yaar. Who's on the roti shift?"

Randeep shrugged. "Not me."

"I bet it's that new guy. Watch, they'll be bhanchod burnt again."

Randeep nodded, sighed. Outside the window, the moon was full. There were no stars though, just an even pit of black, and if he altered the focus of his eyes, he saw his vague reflection. He wondered what his father would be doing.

"Do you think Gurpreet's right? About what he said this morning?"

"What did he say this morning?"

"You were there."

"I was asleep."

"He said it's not work that makes us leave home and come here. It's love. Love for our families." Randeep turned to Avtar. "Do you think that's true?"

"I think he's a sentimental creep. We come here for the same reason our people do anything. Duty. We're doing our duty. And it's shit."

Randeep turned back to the window. "Maybe."

"And I asked bhaji, by the way, but there's nothing right now."

The job, Randeep remembered. He was relieved. He'd only mentioned it during a low moment, needing solidarity. One job was enough. He didn't know how Avtar managed two.

"How'd the thing with the girl go?"

"Nothing special," Randeep said.

"Told you," and Avtar picked up his satchel from where it rested against the flour barrel. He took out his manila college folder and wriggled up onto the worktop.

Randeep had learned by now that when Avtar didn't want to be disturbed he just ignored you until you went away. He let the beads fall through his hands and was turning to go when Avtar asked if it was true that Gurpreet hit him this morning in the bathroom queue.

"It was nothing," Randeep said.

"He's just jealous, you know."

Randeep waited—for sympathy? for support?—but Avtar curled back down to his book, trying out the words under his breath, eyes glinting at the end of each line. Avtar's posture reminded Randeep of the trips he used to make between college and home, his own textbook open on his lap.

In his room, he changed into his tracksuit bottoms, annoyed he'd forgotten to warm them against the oven, then slid inside the blanket. He knew he should try to sleep. Five hours and he'd have to be up again. But he felt restless, suddenly and inexplicably optimistic for the first time in months. Years? He got up and moved to the window and laid his forehead against the cool pane. She was somewhere on the other side of the city. Somewhere in that dark corner beyond the lights, beyond that pinkish blur he knew to be a nightclub called the Leadmill. He wondered if she'd noticed how he'd spent each evening after work scrubbing the doors and descaling the tiles and washing the carpet. Maybe she was thinking about all he'd done right now as she unpacked her clothes and hung them on the rail. Or maybe she'd decided to have a bath instead and was now watching TV, thick blue towels wrapped around her head and body the way British girls do. His forehead pressed harder against the glass. He was being ridiculous again. There was no TV, for one thing. But he couldn't lose the sense that this was a turning point in his life, that she'd been delivered to him for a reason. She'd called him in her hour of need, hadn't she? He wondered whether she'd found his note yet, the rose-scented card leaning inside the cupboard above the sink. He cringed and hoped she hadn't. At the time, in the petrol station, he'd convinced himself it was the sophisticated thing to do. Now, he exhaled a low groan and closed his eyes and forced himself to remember each carefully written word.

Excerpted from The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota. Copyright © 2015 by Sunjeev Sahota. Excerpted by permission of Knopf. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.