The man’s mouth was full. He was chewing. He put one hand on the paper. Hoseyn looked again. The man’s thumb was rocking back and forth on the newsprint underneath a quote from the president. Hoseyn squinted. “Wait until I leave,” the sentence began.

The man pushed back his chair and picked up his plate.

Hoseyn’s mind felt overcrowded.

The man had read his thoughts.

He had listened to his inner talk of wives. How had he heard it?

Could the first part of the cocktail have already begun disrupting his thinking? They said it might have side effects. He’d taken it earlier, with orange juice. One of the doctors seemed uneasy. Water, he kept saying, water is better.

Hoseyn stirred his coffee. When the mind wavers, return to the familiar. The spoon circled the cup’s bottom. The cafeteria was subdued. A table of women to his left, the only female scientists, were at their usual spot by the window. They were whispering. He had once worked closely with Zarah. A project of importance had been a disaster when they arrived, the two of them, to fix it. Her work was meticulous. She was his mother’s age.

It was now almost five years. He heard of his mother, but not often, and usually through an uncle. She lived in Dallas with his sister. His brother was in Michigan, a town called Ann Arbor. He didn’t blame them for their silence. He had disappointed them. He was sorry, but naturally it wasn’t enough. He had the love of his in-laws. They didn’t know what his family knew. Thanks to God, his wife did. She was his lifeline.

Here was the little woman in the veil. She seemed upset. She looked around the cafeteria nervously and tugged at her eyeglasses, fussed with her hair, scratched her ears. Who would pour the coffee if she were over here at his table? He’d never seen anyone but her work beverages for the cafeteria line. He glanced around, hoping no one was watching her behavior.

But some were. A group of low-level managers—mannequins, he always called them—had noticed. They did no work. They stood around for others to ogle and be impressed at their skill sets. Only engineers did work immune to fakery or finesse. It offended him. He would tell them. He stood up.

The little woman was not having any of it. She put her hand on his right shoulder, and he could have told her that would not fly. It was completely unlike her. There were no Basiji in here, but even so. Though they might not pack her up in a van this minute, it would be noted. What else did those mannequins have to do with their time but waste it on something like that? He needed to set them straight. He was not someone they could afford to ignore.