Ghazi, wearing headphones, was at the kitchen table. Aziz could hear him from his bedroom. I. You. He. She. It. We. You. They. I am. You are. He is. She is. It is. We are. You are. They are. It had been a week since their conversation about Rafik’s storage unit. Each day gone meant Ghazi might have forgotten. Luckily, Mourad had lent Ghazi language tapes. Now Ghazi’s chief obsession was English. Aziz looked over the bed at his brother. Mourad was dressed, shoes on, asleep. He had been at Reach late again. The mincing one at home was the prancing one here. It was the green card.

Status had taken the rigid out of Mourad. Back home, Aziz had never considered confiding in him. His older sister Hazar was the one he trusted. Here, he was forever shifting his mind about who it should be. His reasons for unburdening himself changed daily. One day confession was needed for protection, in case Ghazi had been sent to entrap him. That meant he must tell Mourad. Aziz glanced at Mourad’s stun gun near the bed. Mourad would defend him anyway, no matter what he knew about Aziz’s army days. Besides, did he think Ghazi would kill him sleeping in his bed? It was ridiculous. His mind was stew. He had lost how to think clearly. No, thinking was the problem. Thinking too much, that had always upended him. Yet trust irked. A pin stayed stuck in his heart. Hadn’t his army tour shown he had a talent for befriending his enemies?

He sat on the edge of the bed. A few times he had thought of disclosing enough to Heather so she could help him apply for asylum. She helped Lahouari get a social security number, a triumph none of the others had achieved. Asylum meant safety, a path to the green card. Asylum, he had gathered from listening to Rafik dispense advice to the Three, was for those who were persecuted, physically in danger in the home country. The Three would not qualify; they had left because there were no jobs. Economic reasons were not enough.

He stopped. Asylum: Rafik? Rafik knew specks about asylum. It was the Three Aziz should rely upon. They were apart from all wrong. Through their father back home, maybe they could find out Ghazi’s reasons for coming. But wait. Their father had lost touch with Arzew. He lived in Algiers. Or was it Constantine? He tried to remember. He lifted the sheet thumbtacked to the windowsill. He could see the same thick icicles that had been there for months. There was even a layer of ice like mica on the windows inside. Maybe Lahouari, in that unknowing way he had, could ask Ghazi and get an answer. But Lahouari would miss too much. Simple himself, he would bring Aziz only a simple version of what Ghazi had said.