The Canadians laid down a sheet of plywood to serve as a makeshift ramp, allowing me to get over a raised sill and into a small soulless cinder-block building. There were five small offices on either side of a narrow corridor. We were escorted into the second office on the right side. It was standard bureaucrat: a gray metal desk with a narrow table behind it; a bookcase with government manuals on its shelves; two chairs in front of the desk. A hot plate with a coffeepot was on the table. A rattling air conditioner was leaking water into a plastic container on the floor. “How can we help you?” the official asked with a locked-in-place smile.

Here was a sentence I never expected to say: “My name is Roland Stone and I am requesting political asylum.”

Joel Dictrow, he said, offering his hand and trying a little too hard to be more welcoming than officious. He picked up a pen and blank sheet of paper. Dictrow was a tall thin man with tired eyes and a spotted complexion, but when I said my name, he stopped writing and stared at me. “Please wait,” he said, as if I had turned on a switch, and scurried around his desk and out of his office.

We sat there for quite a while. Every few minutes a different person would stick their head in the door or walk past the window and pretend to be ignoring us. “You have any idea what they’re doing?” Laura asked.

“Calling the Welcome Wagon?” I shrugged. “No idea.”

Finally a group of people arrived noisily and pushed into the office. A trim man stepped forward with a big smile on his face. “Mr. Stone, my name is Marty Shaw. Welcome to Canada.”

He held up a bag he was holding. “We brought you some moo shu if you’re hungry.” Shaw sat down behind the desk. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” He looked at my bruised face. “You okay?”

It still hurt when I smiled. “I am now.”

I introduced him to Laura, referring to her as “my tour guide.”

He took us through the events of the night. It was a pretty incredible story, and if I hadn’t been sitting there, I doubt I would have believed it.

Laura and I ran out of steam pretty quickly. We’d been running on adrenaline for so long that the relief deflated us about as quickly as a tire hitting a pothole. Exhilaration became exhaustion. We shared an awkward moment when Marty Shaw checked us into the Foxhead Hotel and asked if we wanted one or two rooms. Laura and I looked at each other and responded almost simultaneously, “Two.” We laughed.

“You need some help?” she asked. “You know,” indicating Mighty Chair, “with everything.” That was odd, it was the first time she had referred to my disability. I admit it, I wondered if that was really what she meant or was she asking a different question entirely.