He stepped back, folding his arms with satisfaction. Aria looked at the recipe for chicken tikka masala, which was printed on the page. It was one of the Agarwals’ small ways of introducing people to the superior taste of their country and culture. “Thanks,” she said, wondering whether she should just leave or work up the courage to ask him when Omkar would be back. Not able to let the opportunity pass, she trampled over her apprehension. “Um, do you know when the man, I mean Omkar, will be here again?” she asked.

Neeraj was taken aback, suddenly distrustful of her interest in his son. “He’s coming back tonight, but he is very busy with his schoolwork. Why do you want to know?” he said, hoping to deter her.

“No reason, never mind,” Aria said, wanting to get out from under the pressure of his distrust as fast as she possibly could. “Thanks again,” she added, walking backward a few steps and waving at him with a smile.

“You’re very welcome,” Neeraj answered her, wanting to leave her with a good impression before she left, despite his suspicion.

Aria walked briskly out the door and down the street. The bell on the door made a riot in response to her exit. She had already made up her mind to wait for Omkar to return the minute the man in the store had hinted that he would be back that night. Trying not to make herself conspicuous, she crossed the street and sat against the side of a building in an alleyway with a view of the store. She didn’t know how long she would have to wait, but she couldn’t let it deter her. So she let her mind wander, making sure to act nonchalant when anyone passed by and always keeping an eye on the store.

It was dinnertime in homes across the city. Aria could hear the buzz of the tail end of rush-hour traffic on a distant highway. She could feel people slowing down for the day and picking up last-minute items to bring home to eat. The sun still had half an hour left in the sky. Out of all the cars that had passed during the three hours or so that she had been waiting there, only one car interrupted its straight-line trajectory and pulled up to the curb just beyond the store. It was a compact car, an ash-gray Honda Fit. (Neeraj had bartered with a man at a used car lot to buy it for Omkar the year he’d been accepted to college.) Because of the sun’s reflection across the driver’s side window, Aria couldn’t see it was Omkar until he stepped out of the car, his hands full of books and papers that he had not bothered to put into a backpack.