“When we came here,” he says, pausing to blow on his pale fingers to warm them, “I was the son and Kareem was the father. He learned English quickly. He found odd jobs and impressed every man he ever worked for. He had the discipline of a soldier. He wanted to do more. He talked to a man who had a coffee truck. He was making good money. So Kareem used everything he’d saved to buy one.

“He woke at three o’clock in the morning, five days a week. Loaded his truck in the dark with doughnuts and whatever else people eat. He did this every day, until one day.”

Shair puts his palms to the ground. His face flushes with exertion as he pushes himself to stand.

“A man shot him for the few dollars he had in his pocket. Gone,” Shair says, his voice breaking. “They could not find his murderer. I couldn’t even seek revenge. In the end, I did the best I could and buried him here, where it is green and peaceful and close enough that I can pray over him.”

I fold my arms across my chest and watch my breath form a small cloud.

“May God forgive him,” I say quietly.

Shair looks infinitely grateful to me for this prayer, this small act of mercy.

“Do you believe in the seven ranks of heaven?” he asks, then chuckles. “Do you know that as they ascend, their gems increase in value? The second has only pearls, but the fourth has white gold, the fifth has silver, and the sixth . . . ah, the sixth dazzles with gold, garnets, and rubies! Even heaven is divided. Maybe the spirits of the dead are all too drunk on milk and honey to revolt.”

He lets out an exasperated breath that ends with a smoker’s wheeze.

“What can I say that will free you?” he asks, looking at me.

“Did you kill them?”

Shair presses the heel of his right hand to his temple, as if he’s suffered a direct blow to the head.

“You would be surprised how many fingers can fit on one trigger.”

“I deserve to know.”

“And a dying man should keep no secrets,” Shair concedes. “But are you ready to go back to those days? To that place?”

“How dare you ask me that?” I say, freshly outraged that Shair continues to dodge my question, even as we stand over Kareem’s grave. “You carved your son’s name into stone so that anyone who walks this way today, tomorrow, or a hundred years from now can read it and know he lived. You come, you pray, you lay flowers. It is evil to deny me this.”

He turns his back to me.

“When there is poison in the blood, do you need an aspirin or an antidote?” Shair asks enigmatically. A gust of wind tilts him. He takes a step and rights himself.