“My name means everything to me. I will not spoil it,” Mansoor said to Gordon Ludlum, who sat across from him at the offices of Stanley, Ludlum, and Partners, Accountants & Receivers. The accountant’s desk was awash with files and paper. Photographs of his family pocked the wall behind him.

“I know we’ve negotiated a good deal here, Mr. Visram. Forty percent of the original debt.” Ludlum tapped a set of forms with the blunt edge of his pen. “But it might be easier, don’t you think, to claim bankruptcy? Wipe the debt off the books instead of carrying it forward?”

“I prefer a receivership.”

“It’s very common right now, Mr. Visram. There’s no shame in it at all. Everyone’s doing it given the state of the economy and all.”

Mansoor stood his ground.

Ludlum swivelled his leather chair from side to side like a hyena surveying a savannah. “You’d get your name back in seven years. The time will go by just like this.” He snapped his fingers. “Lickity-split. You can open up another business then.”

“No, I can’t wait,” Mansoor said, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. Nineteen-ninety-three felt like a lifetime away. “My decision is firm. Please, let’s finish the necessary paperwork. I have a lot of other things to still do.”

“Alrighty, Mr. Visram. As you wish.” Ludlum pulled himself back to his desk. He scribbled in the date, August 26, 1986, on the duplicate set of forms, then placed them in front of Mansoor. “Right here, Mr. Visram,” he said, tapping the pen to the signature line. “Your John Hancock, please.”

That afternoon, Ludlum stood guard at the front door as Mansoor packed his car. A box of kitchen items, the fold-away cot, a suitcase. Nothing else. Not one office pen. Not one file. Everything now belonged to the bank. Behind him, the windows of the gas station were dull with brown paper. The gas pumps had been fitted with gunny sacks like morgue bags. The door was chained and locked, a Notice of Receivership nailed to the front. As Mansoor shifted into drive, his mind flashed back to Uganda. The army officers storming into his store with machetes. Mansoor quietly walking out of Visram P. Govindji & Son. “All the best to you, Mr. Visram,” Ludlum called out over the crunch of gravel as Mansoor drove away.

Mansoor wakes to a fluting sound, a distant melody like a muezzin’s call. He half-opens his eyes. Dark fields extend to the horizon and merge seamlessly with the night sky. A perfect circle. The prairie hills are massive frozen waves. He feels something pecking at his feet. He lifts his head. A small domed shape bobs up and down at his feet, hammering at his icy body. The bird flies up and hovers over his chest. Her body is brilliant blue; her crown golden. Her breast is plump and glazed with rhinestone tassels instead of feathers. Mansoor is amazed that she can fly. He swipes the air and tries to catch her, but she flies up and out of reach. He plants his hands on the snow and struggles to stand, his veins a map of frozen rivers. The bird flies ahead of him and waits, like a siren willing him forward. A few steps and he falls to his knees. His clothes are an armour of ice. In the distance, the city lights are a pale smudge in the sky. He tries to stand again but his body jars, a ship caught in icy waters. “Get up, Visram!” he orders himself. “Move!” Instead he falls, curls in the soft snow, and drifts off again. The bird lands on his shoulder. She nudges her way up to his ear and begins to sing.