pictures hanging in a hallway
and the fragment of a song
half-remembered names of faces
but to whom do they belong

The radio announcer’s voice came on. The man turned off the radio. Ghazi’s heavings filled the car.

“Hey. Hey. Let’s be reasonable.”

Ghazi heard only the music gone.

“Shut the fuck up.” The man took him by the hair and looked him in the eye. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ghazi pulled up on himself. There was some sound from his chest and the back of his throat, subsiding.

“Your buddy Kamal sang a very interesting song for me the other day. About how you’re a big man. Identity thief. Trafficking in fake IDs. Credit card fraud. But the best thing about you? You’re a stowaway. You don’t exist. No record of you coming here. No record of you leaving the shithole you crawled out of. So basically, this here Hank Bridges, United States Treasury agent, Secret Service Financial Crimes Division, is in sole charge of your pissant existence. I’m expecting that right about now, it’s sinking in just how worthless I consider your continued habitation of this planet.” He paused. “Thoughts? Recommendations?”

Ghazi swallowed.

“Excellent. We are off to a ripsnorting start.”

Still he held Ghazi’s hair in his hand. Ghazi tried to look at his eyes but not into them.

“Since you owe your existence to me, you are the man who will do what I say. You will wipe your ass with barbed wire if I say so. You will cut off your pencil dick with a butter knife if I say so. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. All right.”

He dropped Ghazi’s head. He pulled a knife out of his boot. He began cutting away the thin nylon bag pinning Ghazi. Puffs of powder like cornstarch settled on Ghazi’s bloody lips and chin.

“You look like shit.” Hank Bridges balled up the bag and threw it in the backseat.

Ghazi did nothing.

“Now. Tomorrow. I pick you up at eight. We start talking about what you need to do to get out of this pickle. Kamal, see, he’s all straight and clear now. He gave me you. You give me some of your associates. Everybody’s happy.”

“Yes.”

“I know where you live. I know where you work. You run, and your mug, your prints, your dick size, and every last name you have ever used, stole, or even thought about pilfering will be at every airport, border crossing, and falafel stand from sea to shining sea. Now get the fuck out of my truck.”

Ghazi ran toward where they had come. When he finally looked behind him, the Expedition was gone.