In the appendix of the plan, he’s also included a Kiosk Operations Manual, a tool used in franchise operations, using his store as the model of high standards and efficiency. He will replicate his store, like a DNA strand, from one station to the next until the entire map of Calgary is covered. Then he’ll expand beyond the city to Edmonton, Vancouver, Toronto, and Montreal. He sees his name light up across the country. M.G. Visram & Son, Suiting Canada Since 1987. Seen daily by hundreds of commuters. Thousands. Millions. “Then everyone will know my name!” He shoots an arm up in victory.

A man’s laugh booms through the store.

Mansoor turns to see his father climbing out of the photograph’s frame, as if it were a window, and into the store. The top of his head grazes the ceiling.

Mansoor steps back.

“Time’s running out, boy,” his father says, swinging his gold pocket watch back and forth. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

He feels the sting of his father’s gaze. He casts his eyes down.

“How many times can I tell you, boy? A man cannot go out worse off than how he came in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The future line of this family depends on you, boy. Your son’s depending on you. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Twenty-five years in this country and this is all you’ve got to show for it?” Govindji crosses the store in one giant step. “A store the size of a closet? Pathetic.”

“I can explain, Pappa…”

Govindji raises his hand. “No more excuses, boy. I’ve had it up to here with your excuses.”

“I won’t let you down. Not this time, Pappa. I promise.”

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, Pappa-Sir.”

“How sure?” His father steps closer. Mansoor’s heart races.

“One hundred and fifty percent sure. You can trust me.”

Govindji whacks his cane across the back of Mansoor’s calves. He groans, drops to his knees.

“Show me what you’re made of, boy!” his father says.

Mansoor falls to the floor and starts a regimen of military push-ups. Up, down, clap. Up, down, clap.

His father taps his cane on the floor. “Faster, boy. There’s no time to waste.”

Mansoor struggles to keep up. Sweat pools under him.

His father presses a foot on his back. “Can you do it or not?”

Mansoor’s legs shake, his arms, too. He can barely breathe. “I can…do it, Pa…ppa. I pro…mise. I can.”

The front doorbell jingles.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice calls.

Mansoor collapses to the floor. He turns to see another figure. A customer at the cash counter. He struggles to stand. His legs are weak. His shirt is drenched. But when he gets to her, she’s already out the door.

“I’m here!” he yells, following her outside but she won’t stop.

Outside, his shirt stiffens instantly, like ice in a flash freezer. He rushes back inside. Customers! He shakes his head in frustration. One day, they are going to be the death of him.