He worked. He saved to pay the hospital bills in the cereal box under his bed. He called home and told his mother he was happy. He sent money to his father, who begged him to send less. He told his brother he would love it here, and they counted the days until his arrival. He told Rafik to get rid of the hash and the suitcases and inspected his room every Friday night, with Rafik nervously watching. Using Heather’s talk of Customs as a threat, he made Rafik take him to this job he supposedly had at a moving company in Brighton. There was a boss and three workers who spoke Russian. He knew it was most likely theater, staged only for him, to be closed down soon as he left. As part of the show, Heather informed him that she had made up seeing Linda Ricco. Customs was not on their trail. He wondered if the invention was earlier or now.

He thought often of the visit from Heather’s father. His BMW, a much larger and newer one than Heather’s, parked out front, left much of Brooks Street to conclude that drug dealing was the only anomaly that could explain it. He was a tall silver-haired man in a camel coat and tasseled dress shoes. He came into the still damp that was their now-mildew-fragrant kitchen and seemed to think everything was more than great, that Heather and Rafik were “a hell of a fine couple,” and that Aziz had “a future ahead of him.” When the father took them out to dinner, Aziz marveled at Rafik in a restaurant with walnut walls and table roses. His English was a dazzle. Sentences were long. Words were many syllables.

“He thinks you are a contractor!” Aziz said to Rafik in the men’s room.

“Not the same,” Rafik said. “Entrepreneur is different in English.”