A jolt of anger bursts through his arms, and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He recites Surat An-Nas again to calm himself.

Hanadi slings her backpack on one shoulder and trudges inside, hunched over as though it were raining.

He watches the glass doors close behind his daughter and waits for the Toyota to leave.

He could leave the car and follow her, but it seems like a creepy, rather than fatherly, thing to do.

She said she would call, and she didn’t. What does that mean? He lays his head on the steering wheel in weariness, and it accidentally honks. He startles and bumps his head on the ceiling of the car. No one else is on the street or sidewalk to hear.

After about an hour, she comes out, eating potato chips from a small bag. She stands to the side of the doorway, waiting for a ride, perhaps.

He gets out of the car and walks across the parking lot toward her. She recognizes him from the other day. He doesn’t like the look on her face, a panic in her eyes like a child in trouble. Why can’t this reunion he’s longed for be joyful?

This is not their reunion, though, he reminds himself. That was two days ago. Coming back to her is harder than he expected. Like learning a new language. You can’t flip a switch in your brain and understand English or Swedish or Bengali or Swahili.

“I said I’d call you,” she says, defensively, her arms across her chest, chip bag crumpled and mostly hidden in one hand.

“I have to go back to Jidda soon,” he says. But that is not the reason it hurt that she hadn’t called.

She tosses her chip bag toward a trash can and misses. “I knew it. I knew Mom was lying. I knew you weren’t dead.”

The faint sound of geese quacking comes to them from the Museum of Art lagoon. Had she known, or hoped? Either way, the idea that Saeedah could not cover the truth bolsters him. He imagines if his own father came back from the dead, how he would feel. He would be thanking God for blessing him with a miracle.

He picks up the crumpled bag, squeezes it in his fist, and throws it in the bin. The first time in many years that he’s cleaned up after her.

“Here I am,” he says. “Alive.”

Hanadi seems to shake her head, but really, her whole body is trembling. He wants to hold her tight, carry her backpack for her.

A two-door Pontiac pulls up. Hanadi moves to hop in, head bent to avoid looking at him.

“I’ll take you wherever you’re going,” Muneer says.

“My boss will kill me if I’m late.” She’s speaking into the open door of the car and he has to strain his ears to hear her.