A taxi with a mound of snow on the roof, like a square igloo, pulls up. Ashif jumps in.

The driver tilts the rearview mirror and looks at Ashif. “Where to?”

Chapter 20

WHEN MANSOOR WAKES, HIS head is pressed against the steering wheel. His body is slumped and stiff, as if he has been motionless for a long time. He lifts his head slowly and pats a palm to his head, expecting blood. But there isn’t any. A CD tape whirs in its deck, Dolly’s voice stuck on the same line of “Islands in the Stream.” Moonlight pours into the car, refracting through the icy windshield.

Mansoor flicks on the windshield wipers. They rise hesitantly over the frost. He leans forward and peers outside, but he cannot see anything. He tries to open the driver’s door, but it is stuck. He pushes his shoulder against it. Still nothing. He lifts himself off his seat and climbs into the passenger seat. A sharp pain runs down the length of his leg. He groans softly but continues. He props one arm on the steering wheel and twists himself out of the driver’s seat. The passenger door beeps intermittently when he opens it.

He stumbles out, his feet sinking into snow. He is at the bottom of a ditch. The yellow cone of the car’s headlights cut the dark like a diver’s torch in a dark sea. The engine is still on, purring softly like a sleeping animal. He zips up his winter jacket and inspects the Impala. A mass of mangled steel and snow. An accident! He’s been in an accident? With elephants? He was on his way from Kampala to Kisumu to meet Layla for the first time. Near Nairobi, close to the Great Rift Valley, he turned a sharp corner and nearly drove straight into a herd of elephants with a newborn calf. He was in a Range Rover, but it would not protect him from the wrath of an elephant mother. Nothing could. He quickly cranked the gearshift and drove his vehicle into a ditch. The herd passed but he was stuck, his tires knee-deep in mud. It took eight Maasai to push the Rover up and out of the ditch. That week, Neil Armstrong made a soft landing on the moon. When he recounted the story to Layla’s family, he joked that he too had made a soft landing, but on mud—to which everyone laughed and clapped.

Not mud this time. Snow. He had never been in a car accident in Canada. Fender-benders, sure. A few nicks here and there. Nothing serious; nothing he had to report. These things happen. Especially when he was new in the country and still getting used to driving on the right and managing icy roads. But never an accident! He had always been so careful. There was that time when he was pulled over for driving under the influence. A police officer had stopped him when he saw Mansoor’s car waver on Memorial Drive. This after a business dinner with a real estate agent who specialized in small businesses. The officer gave him a warning, then let him go. His generosity made Mansoor reconsider his habit. After all, in Kampala, men would drive themselves home after an evening of drinking whether it was City Bar, the casino, or a round of golf. He was so grateful for the kindness of that officer. In Uganda, he would have had to grease his palm. It only deepened his loyalty to Canada. Justice and fairness in all matters.