Part of me wants to tell them that my father’s bloodline goes back to this land before their ancestors even had the thought to come here, but the other part reminds me that my mother was an immigrant from the Middle East, and I may not want to pull that particular thread right now.

A baby in the waiting room begins to cry, putting everyone on edge. The baby’s brother, who looks to be about six, tries to get their mother’s attention, but she’s too busy searching through her bag for something to distract her crying child. Toque Man gives the maybe six-year-old a chummy smile.

As the infant continues to bawl, I stare at the gloves and the female agent’s long, thick fingers. Imagining where they might go if I’m not persuasive enough.

In the end, they let me back through to my country of birth with my cavities intact.

Back on the bus, some of my body heat returns. The bus heaves into motion, and I leave Detroit behind. Finally. With the greatest relief, I watch the scenery fly by outside the window.

Oh, Canada.

I relax, thinking I’m in the clear because the Ambassador Bridge is in the rearview mirror.

The relaxation doesn’t last for very long.

Toque Man is sitting directly behind the six-year-old’s mother, where he’s been ever since we first boarded the bus in America. She and the infant have the seat in front of him. The six-year-old is across the aisle. Whenever the boy turns to look at his mom, he sees Toque Man. With the bus only a quarter full, the man’s choice of seating is unthinkable. Nobody wants to travel in such close proximity to a young family. Nobody but this guy. At the border, I was too far away to hear what he was saying when his passport was checked, but I know whatever it was, he wasn’t being honest. His posture was relaxed, his smile a little too easy. Practiced.

It was the same way he’d smiled at the little boy.

I don’t like it at all.

I’m trying to keep my eyes open, to pay attention to the middle of the bus. We’re barely across the border when there’s a distraction I hadn’t anticipated.

The radio comes on.

It’s playing a song I recognize, one that I have sung. The song follows me into Windsor and then past it. I have left Detroit behind, but there’s that damn tune in my head—and now it’s on the radio, too. Sung by an unsigned soul artist and a former blues singer caught unawares on the airwaves, the song is a tribute to a relationship heading for the rocks. A call and response. It’s a good song, maybe even a great one, but it isn’t the kind of thing you hear on the radio anymore.