Mansoor slips his briefcase between the barbed wire fence. He ducks down and slides one leg in. He is about to pull his second leg through when his pants catch on the wire. He tugs the fabric free and rolls into the snowfield like a boxer into a ring. He stands up immediately; dusts the snow off. He reaches for his flashlight and inspects his leg. His pants are slightly torn and on his calf, a hairline cut. Nothing serious. There is no blood. Just a minor battle scar. He laughs and shakes his leg vigorously as if to rejuvenate it.

He glances back at the road and considers for a moment if he should just wait for someone to drive by. He checks his watch: half-past midnight. He reviews the logic of his decision: too late for a passing car, short distance to the farmhouse, reasonable temperatures. Yes, this is a good idea. He flips the hood of his coat over his head and puts on his gloves. He begins his walk to the farmhouse, his sales bag swinging from one hand, his car’s hazard lights blinking behind him.

Chapter 21

THE CAR COMPOUND IS located in an industrial park off Blackfoot Trail in the southeast quadrant of the city. Inside the garage, a man in greasy striped coveralls and a Calgary Flames toque flips through the forms. An oval patch over his chest reads BRANDON. “Accident or tow?” he asks.

“Accident.” Ashif turns his gaze to the window. In the distance, he glimpses the huddle of the city’s skyscrapers, like concrete mountains. A plane arcs over the skyline. Only yesterday he walked out of the business lounge at the airport, his stride quick and sure. He never said goodbye. He never turned around, not even for one last look. If only he’d taken one last look. All he remembers is his father’s hand, the veins green and bulbous, pushing the envelope with his name on it back at Ashif.

Brandon leads Ashif outside to the yard of cars. They zigzag past what seems like hundreds of cars, the snow crunching under their feet. Some of the cars are unrecognizable, crumpled empty shells. Others are flattened into sheets of metal, piled one on top of the other. A few are buried, rounded bodies of snow and ice like frozen tombs.

“Here it is. Chevy Impala. They’re good cars. If you like American, that is.”

His father’s words run through his head. When you weigh the pros and cons, Impala always comes out on top.

Ashif surveys the car. The front right side of the car is damaged, a large indent, like a crater, on the body. The hood on that side is squeezed up, a steel wave frozen in place.

“Doesn’t look too bad to me,” Brandon says. “Chances are we can have it back to you in no time.”

“Can I have my father back, too?” Ashif wants to say.

Ashif squats down, the edge of his winter coat gathering on the snow, and inspects the damage from close range. He pulls at the fingertips of one glove to remove it, and is about to touch the damaged quarter panel when Brandon stops him.