“I like helping. I like to help people the way that others have helped me.”

“You got family in Afghanistan?”

“My parents. If I can get citizenship they’ll be able to come here. I hope.”

I detected a sadness in the way that Miriam spoke. I’ve been to Afghanistan several times. Most families have tragic stories. I said, “You had other family members?”

Her brow was knotted, lips pursed. I watched her struggle to get her emotions in order. It didn’t take long. That was one strong girl.

Miriam looked at me with brimming eyes. “Sorry, it’s not easy to talk about.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I had two older brothers. They were beheaded in front of us as an example. My father was a librarian and my mother writes. Apparently there was an issue with my mother writing, being a woman and all. My father read the wrong kind of books. So that didn’t help.”

No self pity there. Plenty of anger.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you get your parents out of there.”

She said, “Thanks”.

“Are there many Afghan asylum seekers here?”

“There are some, not many. But there are plenty who pretend to be Afghan.”

“Why would they do that?”

“The state recognizes Afghanistan as a place that people need asylum from. So Afghans get asylum seeker status pretty easily once they get here. Syrians too. But not Libyans, Iraqis, or Pakistanis or Jordanians, for example.”

“Like a hierarchy of pity.”

Miriam glanced at me. “That’s one way to think about it.”

“So people falsify papers. To make it look like they’re Afghans or Syrians.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

Miriam concentrated on the driving. I let her stay in the zone. I was looking out the window while thinking about that and noticed something that I could have easily seen and not registered. But I caught it. A lucky thing, part of my lizard brain ticking away behind the scenes. I was looking at a blue van, and not really seeing it. Just looking in the general direction of the van and thinking about Miriam and our conversation.

But then I saw it.

Specifically I was looking to my right at a blue Mercedes Sprinter van, at the driver of the van. The driver whose head was buzzed in a number two and had an Adidas stripe pattern shaved into the left side. We were a couple of yards behind the Sprinter, but closing. I kept watching as we drew level. Then we were alongside the blue Sprinter. I was looking at the guy’s face. Which I recognized. And across his body, resting on the steering wheel, the right arm was splinted and bandaged. I turned my head away, didn’t want the rat-face guy to recognize me.