I stumbled backward, colliding with a trash can full of upturned umbrellas. They were already half a block away when I grabbed the handle of one of the umbrellas and gripped it tightly. I looked around but couldn’t tell if anyone had seen or heard anything.

With the broken umbrella still in my clutches, I jogged home, breaking into a run at times and looking over my shoulder.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until I tried to slide the key into the front door of my apartment building. I took a deep breath and looked up, catching my reflection in the glass. My eyes were wide and my skin pale. The fleece hood was plastered to my head, making it look like I was wearing a hijab.

I knew why they’d targeted me.

They’d seen me for something I wasn’t—a devout Muslim. But they’d also seen me for what I was.

My cell phone buzzed. It was Dayo, saying she would take care of the food. I texted her back that I needed to prep a lecture. Dinner another time, I promised.

I shoved my wet jacket into the front door closet and dropped the umbrella on the floor. I fell onto my sofa and then slowly slid to the floor. I was angry at myself for feeling so paralyzed.

I closed my eyes and saw the guns pointed at my family. The explosions, the smell of artillery, the thuds of their bodies crumpling to the floor. All of it, exhumed and sprawled across the floor in front of me.

I hadn’t heard Dayo call my name. I jumped at her touch, shoving the sofa back as I scrambled. Dayo pulled away, as if her fingers had touched a hot stove.

Aryana! What’s going on with you?

In all the years she’d known me, watching people live and die around us, Dayo had never seen me like this. She moved my coffee table aside and sat across from me.

I’m not going anywhere.

True to her word, Dayo stayed right there on the floor with me until I managed to right myself. Rummaging through her bag, she found a napkin and handed it to me so I could blow my nose. I told her about my hood looking like a hijab and the things the men had said to me.

Dayo sighed.

Such stupidity, she had said, incensed. My family in Nigeria has been calling me nonstop. My aunt is telling my mother I should come home right away. This is the same woman who refused to leave her home during the civil war.

I exhaled slowly and noticed a white plastic bag on the table. Dayo had ordered the food while I was still on the train and picked it up on her way over. It wasn’t like me to cancel on her at the last minute, and she’d wanted to check on me.