“We got a load of kilims we need to put out front. And those Persians need to be rotated,” he says, nodding at the pile of eight-by-tens near the door that Simon had just moved the day before.

“Jesus. Anything else?” He knows the rearrangement is Ashish’s way of feeling that business is crisp.

“Want some coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“We must move the rugs. We must move them. Our customers come in two, maybe three times before they buy. They walk past our store every day on their way to work. Not like Americans buy cars. Buying rugs makes them nervous. When we move the carpets, always showing new ones, they think they must buy soon, buy quick.”

Simon nods and sips the weak coffee, aware of Ashish’s attempts at reconciliation but groaning inwardly at the amount of work his selling philosophy necessitates.

“You give some guy my address?”

“He said he was your nephew.”

“He is.”

“Well then, he is family.”

“Just warn me next time.”

“You cannot escape family. Your family can always find you.”

“I ain’t hidin.”

“Yes. But you are not waving at them either.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He drains the coffee and throws the styrofoam cup in the garbage. “I don’t see none of your family workin here.”

“Never hire a relative. Sell to them, but never hire them.”

Simon begins lifting.

Despite his intricate, modern, tried-and-true selling philosophy, Ashish does not believe in air-conditioning. I moved to Minnesota so I would not need it, he explained to Simon when he first complained. In India we were too poor to afford it and the heat drove us crazy, so I moved here.

Simon regrets it as he flips and rolls the carpets and hugs them standing and shuffles them to the side. His arms begin to itch and are rubbed red by the wool fiber. He carries the rolled kilims from the loading dock, one on each shoulder, and starts to sweat. He feels the sweat roll down his back. When he unrolls them and slaps them down into position, the dust rises and settles in his nose. The whole while he thinks about Lincoln and hurries to be done so he can warn Vera and T-Man and anyone else who might recognize him. And then what? What kind of refuge or embrace can he offer?

When he is half finished the electric doorbell sounds. Simon, expecting Lincoln, jerks his head up and sees a blond girl, no older than twenty, with stirrup pants, a puffy sweater and violent hair, standing in the entryway.

Simon scrapes the sweat from his forehead. “Can I help you?”

She looks around nervously.

“You wanna buy a rug?”

“Ummm.”

“You come here for a rug?”

“You Ashish?”

“No. Can I help you?”

“No, mister. I’m here to help him.”

“Really?”