“Fine. Do what you want.” Brandon slams the back door shut. “But you can kiss your insurance goodbye. They’ll probably scrap the car.”

Ashif stops and faces Brandon. “Let them! He’s dead. He’s dead,” he says like a mantra as if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true.

Ashif walks to the service road at the entrance of the compound. His legs feel heavy yet weak, like steel columns wobbling. He sets down his briefcase and the dry-cleaning bag on a clear patch of road and waits to flag down a taxi. It takes him a few minutes to remember that it’s impossible to flag down a taxi in Calgary. You have to call for one. He reaches for his cell, but the phone is dead. Using it as a flashlight must have drained the battery. He picks up his briefcase and heaves the bag over his shoulder, a hobo in a business suit. He crosses the road to the car rental shop, “M.G. Visram & Son Dry Cleaners, Ltd: Suiting Canada Since 1987” bobbing against his back.

The young woman is efficient. Within ten minutes, he’s back outside, unplugging the rental from the electrical post. The car is mid-sized, much smaller than his father’s Chevy Impala, but bigger than any car he would buy, not that he’s ever owned one. It’s been years since he’s driven—he’s only kept up his driver’s licence to use as ID.

He slips off his jacket and is about to throw it in the back seat when the letter from Shafina falls out. He picks it up and dusts the snow off. He then steps into the driver’s seat, surprised by the new-car smell. He tucks the letter into a corner of the dash. He wraps his fingers around the steering wheel. It feels good in his hands. He twists the wheel one way then the other, like a child pretending to drive.

He must have been six, no older. He was standing on the sofa on the second floor of their apartment building with his face pressed to the glass, watching, as always, for his father to come home from his job at Patterson Used Cars & Trucks. He watched as one bus after the other passed. Then there he was, stepping out of a long blue automobile.

“Mummy!” Ashif screamed. “Pappa’s home. With a car!”

His father saw him in the window and waved him down.

Ashif pulled on his mukluks, even though it was a warm chinook day and the streets were dotted with pools of melting snow. “Let’s go, Mummy!”

Outside, Layla took his hand in hers to cross the street, but he dropped it as soon as he could and ran to his father. Mansoor crouched down with open arms and lifted his son up. He tried to wrap his small hands around his father’s forearm, but he couldn’t. They were so big.

Mansoor slapped the roof of the car. “So, what do you think?” he asked. “Chevy Impala.”