“I’m losing my best man. You can’t expect me to be happy about it.”

“I understand,” Mansoor said. But there was no turning back. He had joined Patterson Used Cars & Trucks almost as soon as he arrived in Canada. The job was commission-based, which appealed to him. He was paid on performance, not a salary for merely clocking in. It was as close as a job could get to being like a business. But in the end, it was still just a job. He was just an employee. He had a boss to answer to and there was no way Mansoor could have tolerated that for much longer. Working here had always been a temporary venture. Only until he had enough money to put a down payment on his own business. Business was the only way. The only way to own land, to call something your own, and rebuild the family legacy.

It had taken five years of working day and night, weekends, too, keeping a tight control on spending, to finally amass the funds he needed. He then spent the past year combing the province on evenings and his days off in search of the right opportunity. He’d been outbid on three promising operations. Then last month, he closed a deal on a gas station. It was located on an empty stretch of highway between Rocky Mountain House and Red Deer, two hours north of Calgary, making it a primary stop for truckers and oilmen on their way to a work site, construction workers from nearby projects, tourists and campers on their way to the Icefields Parkway, or motorists caught in a snowstorm. But he had no plans to move the family there. He wasn’t confident that he’d be able to find Ashif a good school in such a small town and a proper education for his son was imperative. It had been hard enough to get him a place at Calgary’s best public school. Besides, it was a temporary matter. Once the gas station was on solid ground, he would hire a manager to run it and expand with a second location, closer to home.

“If you ever decide to come back, Manny, there’ll always be a spot for you here.” Patterson tucked his thumbs under his suspenders. “Business is a tough proposition, after all.”

“Thanks, Fred.” Mansoor loosened his tie. This idiot should be working for him, not the other way around. He had more business acumen in his pinky finger than his boss had in his whole body.

“So, what you gonna do with all these plaques? Sell them?” Patterson chuckled.

Mansoor laughed along. “I just want to take some photos at home with the family. For the sake of posterity, you know? Don’t want to forget these years.”

“Well, it’s quite an accomplishment. Just bring them back, okay?” Patterson said and started for his office.

“Absolutely. First thing.” Mansoor stepped onto the ladder and reached up for a plaque with his name.

Soon, the accountant, Patel, a slight man with greasy hair, walked up. “Just finished lunch,” he said in Gujarati, pulling the fingers of his right hand through a handkerchief. “Let me help you, brother.”