The Imperial Valley was not like Seattle, or even Hambelton. Here, the sky and the gray-green earth felt familiar, like the desert surrounding Lyallpur. A sign announcing CITY OF FREDONIA, AMERICA’S DREAM hung crookedly from a rusted chain and piece of wire. Only five other passengers had disembarked from the train and they had stared at him too: a Chinese man and an elderly Negro had emerged from the car next to his, and three Anglos had come off a front car, wearing suits and carrying briefcases. He had seen them board in Los Angeles. Now, they seemed out of place, but he could see they were coming home. The men walked past the depot to the road, where a motor car had raised a cloud of dust and stood sputtering, its honk calling playfully. A woman—the first he had seen here—and her driver were inside. One of the Anglo men stepped up toward it, leather shoes gleaming, pocket watch smartly jangling on his vest. The woman smiled widely. The driver opened the door.

Had Karak Singh forgotten him? Was he punishing him for not accepting his invitation sooner? Had he not received the telegram Ram had sent from Portland? Ram had stood so long that his calf had begun to throb again. He found a wooden crate abandoned near the track, turned it over to sit. Two men, wearing wide-brimmed hats, sat on a bench under the awning of the general store, watching him silently. He thought of the $5.50 he had in his billfold. What would he do if Karak did not show up? One of the men said something to the other, and Ram thought—the way he tilted his head, the way his companion responded—that the comment was about him.

Ram sensed them at the edge of his vision: three men with dastars regally wrapped about their heads, as if they were soldiers, as if they were farmers; he knew they were both. He felt a relief akin to love.

The earth swayed again. His vision blurred. Ram could not help himself. Despite the flash of pain, he picked up his bag and blanket and raced to meet them.