The constellation of spots began to bleed into a mass of red. “This is only temporary. Once I find a new business, everything will go back to normal.”

“Remember how they gave you paid vacation? Then we can go somewhere together. That would be so nice, no? Ashif would enjoy that. We all would.”

Layla’s words seared through him. What was she saying? That he wasn’t providing for the family? That he wasn’t taking care of them? His anger, thick and murky before, distilled into one point: Layla. In his mind’s eye, her face became Ludlum standing guard at the gas station, Patel’s name on the dealership sign, Patterson lording over him all those years, the army officer pressing a machete to his neck. Her threw his chair back and stood up.

His arm shot out. Then again. He only stopped when he saw another face: his son standing at the kitchen door, watching him. From Ashif, he turned to see Layla, as if for the first time. She was huddled on the ground, her hands shielding her face.

Mansoor reached down for her. “Come…I don’t know…”

She shuddered, weeping. “Go back inside your room,” she called to Ashif. “Shut the door.”

Instead of obeying his mother, Ashif rushed to her side. Mansoor cast his eyes away from his son’s glare.

“Go now,” she begged Ashif.

Ashif refused. He helped her up and pulled her away from his father.

Mansoor stood aside. He wanted to hide his face in shame.

Ashif led his mother to his room and shut the door behind them.

Mansoor’s legs shook, as if an underground tremor was cracking his house in two. He ran out and drove away.

Mansoor wakes, shivering uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, Layla,” he whimpers. “I’m so sorry.” But there is no answer from his wife, only the silence of fields. He hears snow crunching under the weight of footsteps. He turns to see his son in a snowsuit and mukluks running to him with open arms. His heart lifts. “My boy!” But as Ashif gets closer, he’s no longer a child but a young man, and Mansoor doesn’t recognize him. His son like a stranger to him. Ashif stares down at him for a few moments, then walks away.

Mansoor’s underarms are damp; the creases of his thighs soaked. He can feel pools of sweat under his clothes, like sweating while shovelling a sidewalk, the effort concealed underneath heavy clothing. The heat incongruous with the cold. The same dampness now grips his body. He tugs at the buttons on his jacket with his swollen fingers, frozen icicles. Dolly-bird falls out of the darkness again. She lands on his chest, pecks at his icy clothes. He begins to hum to stay awake. Instead, it puts him to sleep like a lullaby.

He circled the city for what seemed like hours, the soft purring of the engine soothing him. It was late but he didn’t want to go home and face his family. He considered checking into a motel, but he didn’t want to spend the money. He turned into an empty shopping plaza. He wondered if his family would worry about him if he did not come home. He hoped so, but he guessed they were probably relieved to have him gone. This thought hurt him deeply. But he couldn’t blame them. Or maybe he could. Why did Layla provoke him? He fixed his brain on this idea and it eased his pain. His fists throbbed. One knuckle still bleeding. He pumped his hands open and closed, but it offered no relief. He wrapped his cut hand with a handkerchief, like medical gauze, then pushed his seat back and tried to rest.