And here I blurted, “Your partner!” like the fool that I am.

He gave me this sideways look and went, “Yes . . .”

And then he wrote down another spot and asked if I’ve heard of Pigneto—“It’s like the Bushwick of Rome”—and I told him I don’t even know the Bushwick of wherever-Bushwick-is, and he laughed. Then he wrote a third spot, and a name. “Jahan. That’s the name of the bartender there. He’s an incredible poet, too.”

Suddenly, a shard of sun sliced the bookstore clerk’s hair, turning it from brown to blond, and once again, my mind flashed to Jackson. I thought about the texts he’d sent me yesterday—where are you, what the hell Amir, answer me damn it, are you okay, should I call your parents—

NO, don’t, I finally replied, I’m fine, family emergency.

And just like that, all my troubles came flooding back.

I quickly said thanks to this gorgeous bookseller (whose name I didn’t even catch) and went on my way.

Outside, the streets were busy and crowded. I came to a four-way intersection and froze. My heart was beating out of my chest, and it was like this entire ancient city—its Colosseum, its Sistine Chapel—had come crashing down over my head.

My thoughts swirled between the bookstore clerk, his slick brown hair, and Jackson, whose hair was getting longer and blonder every day. From Jake, who still owned my secret, to my parents, who still didn’t know. At least, I thought they didn’t. Who knew what could be happening in my absence?

I swallowed the tightness in my chest long enough to find my way back to the Airbnb. I drank some water and lay down in bed for a couple hours. Then I moved to the floor. I rested the back of my hand over my burning forehead and closed my eyes.

Interrogation Room 39

Afshin Azadi

THIS IS ABSURD. You’ve been questioning me nonstop about my background. I’ve already told you. I was detained once before, just like this. It was ten years ago. Why do I look different from that photo? Because!

Because I shaved off the beard.

The whole experience frightened me. When you people went through my things and made me feel like a bad guy. I was merely traveling for a work trip. I was carrying a briefcase with chemicals I needed for a convention in Texas, and I believe the intention of my trip was simply . . . misinterpreted.

We never told my children about this, no. They don’t know. We didn’t want to scare them.

Interrogation Room 37

Amir

I WOULD ABSOLUTELY love a glass of water, yes. You know, sir, you’re not nearly as intimidating as I would have expected you to be. Which is kind of messed up, when you think about it.

Twenty-Nine Days Ago

I MUST HAVE drunk half the water out of the Tiber River after my panic attack in the bookstore.

The bed in my Airbnb was lofted up by some weird chains that rattled every time I went down the creaky wooden stairs. It also meant that I had to duck my head whenever I went into the kitchen to fill up my glass.