India-Africa-Muslim. He doesn’t fit into any category easily. He looks Indian but he isn’t. He was born in Africa but isn’t African. He’s Muslim but not that kind of Muslim. Saying anything would only lead to endless questions, as if he was an expert, a guide at a museum. But he hardly knows enough about Ismailism, let alone Islam. He wouldn’t be able to discuss his family’s history, either. All he knows is that his mother is from Kenya and his father is from Uganda. He has no idea which city either was born in, though he knows he was born in Kampala. It says so on his passport. He was just a baby when they left and there are no pictures of him from there. None of his parents, either. As if they never existed until they arrived in Canada, which is fine by him. He has never been back and has no desire to go, either. Uganda has nothing to do with him. He is Canadian. Not that people always accept that when they ask him where he’s from. No, but where are you really from? As if they are border guards and he’s trying to enter the country illegally. It leaves him feeling that he doesn’t belong here. But he doesn’t belong anywhere else, either. He’s perpetually in limbo. No man’s land.

“What are you doing here?” Ashif asks, kissing Caity hello.

“Our date,” she says, lifting a paper bag from the floor. “I brought groceries for us to cook together. Did you forget?”

“Sorry, I did,” he says.

“Want to reschedule?” she asks.

He’s exhausted and still needs to pack for his trip. It’s already eight. But he feels bad that he’d forgotten and kept her waiting. “No. Let’s go up.”

Ashif’s condo isn’t luxurious, but it’s close to work and has everything he needs. Not that any of the things are his. The furniture, the artwork, the dishware. Nothing except his clothes and personal items. Like he’s living in a hotel. He can check out anytime he wants.

After dinner and sex, Caity leaves, and he’s relieved to have his place back to himself. He can breathe again. He powers on his desktop and settles into his evening routine. The computer whirs, taking a few minutes to turn on. Meanwhile, he makes himself a gin and tonic. He knows he’s not supposed to drink while he’s on anti-depressants. But it’s only one drink. Maximum two. He looks forward to it, like his reward at the end of a long day. He clicks open a file called “Mummy.” The spreadsheet tracks his salary, his expenses, his investments. He’s asked his broker to put all his money into safe instruments. GICs, bonds, T-Bills. Some stocks. He doesn’t want to take any risks. Not until he’s got enough money to leave his job. For years now, Ashif has been saving his money with one goal in mind: his mother. She’s already fifty-four, and he wants her to stop working and start enjoying her life.