“Bye, Pappa.” His hands were tucked into his jacket, his voice sheepish.

Mansoor parked the car and stepped out. He knelt down on one knee and held his son by his shoulders. “Remember what we talked about?”

“Yes.” Ashif’s eyes filled with tears.

It was the last thing Mansoor wanted, too. He’d already missed a year of his son’s life and he didn’t want to miss any more. But what choice did he have? He had to do it for the sake of the family. Taking care of the business was taking care of the family. He wiped his thumbs under his son’s eyes. “You’re eleven now, son. You’re practically a man!” He gently punched him on the sides of his torso.

Ashif put his elbows up in feign defence. “I am?”

Mansoor tousled his son’s curls. “Yes, you are. And when I’m not at home, guess who’s the man of the house?”

“Me?” Ashif asked, tentatively.

“Exactly. That means you have to take care of Mummy for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And soon, you’ll have a baby brother or sister to help take care of, too.”

Ashif was smiling.

That afternoon, Mansoor turned the office at the back of the gas station into his makeshift home. Other than his desk and filing cabinets, he didn’t need much. A cot, a bar fridge, a small freezer, a microwave, a bar with a few bottles of whisky. He nailed hooks into the bathroom wall to hang his clothes; cardboard boxes served as a dresser. In front of the full-length mirror beside his desk, a set of free weights and a skipping rope.

Mansoor opened the lid of a small cooler. Inside, Layla had neatly stacked Tupperware containers, each one labelled with masking tape. Enough to last until his next visit. He removed two containers. One labelled chicken saag and the other one rice. He dumped the contents into a bowl then into the microwave. He picked up a set of dumbbells for biceps curls. The oven buzzed. He set the weights down. He took the bowl to his desk and sat down to work. It was five o’clock, but the winter sun had long since set. The store lights were on. The office was dark except for his desk lamp. Outside, the twenty-four-hour neon sign pulsed in the night sky.

A distant voice rolls across the dark fields, nudging Mansoor awake. He lifts his head gingerly and scans the fields. Nothing. Only the car’s hazard lights blinking in the dark. He strains to hear a distant sound. Dolly?

His head drops back to the cushion of snow. He begins shivering again. He turns on his side and pushes himself back up to standing. The farmhouse. He has to get to the farmhouse. He tries to wiggle his toes, but he cannot feel them. The numbness hurts. He wishes he could shake them loose like ice cubes from a tray. He feels as if the signals from his brain to his body are being disconnected, snuffed out one by one. This only makes him want to try harder. He refocuses his mind and pushes the signals from his brain to his extremities. Go! Move! Do it! His legs jerk like an engine sputtering. But almost at once, they stall and buckle under him. He falls down. He tries to lift himself up again. But his limbs are heavy. His eyes are heavy. His brain begins to dim again. He reaches for his briefcase. He wants the SOS placard. But he can’t pull the briefcase to him. He calls for help instead. “Hello,” he mumbles to the fields. “Please help me. I am here. I am Mansoor Visram,” he whispers, his voice trailing into the emptiness.