There were no welcome banners, and California was not always welcoming—kids were shitty, especially when he was still learning English. But not all of them were shitty; he’d never forget the first two American kids (Luis and Carlos, the neighbors from two houses down) who played with him despite the fact that he didn’t speak English yet. The game had been basketball, a nine-year-old and an eight-year-old playing with a seven-year-old, and the simple joy of it, that small sliver of acceptance by strangers after all the months of fear and uncertainty, had been the turning point, the moment that he thought perhaps they could survive in this foreign place. Luis and Carlos cheering his first basket had made him happier than a thousand John Travoltas ever could.

Yes, categorically, Kaveh was projecting. Enola was not in the U.S. to build a new life for himself (quite the opposite, apparently), he was not here for political asylum, and the idea of being welcomed by the natives did not seem to have even crossed his mind as a possibility. Kaveh had no idea what was really going on in Enola’s mind. Hell, even Enola probably didn’t know what was going on in Enola’s mind. All the same, Kaveh’s heart went out to him.

“My name’s Kaveh. Do you have a name?”

“I HAVE MANY NAMES.”

“What are your many names?”

“MY DIRECT ADDRESS DEPENDS ON WHO IS ADDRESSING ME, AND UNDER WHAT CIRCUMSTANCE.”

“What would I call you?”

“YOU COULDN’T PRONOUNCE IT.”

“Well, tell me what it would sound like in your language the way you pronounce it.”

Out of two holes on the side of his neck, a singular noise came out that could inaccurately be described as “Bllkstsksxzzztst.”

“Nice to meet you.” Kaveh soaped up a new sponge, having by now gone through almost half his water. “Now I have to get the blood off your body, which means I have to wash you. Are you okay with that?”

The luminous, frightened eyes kept staring up at him, the glowing nebulae shrinking in size, growing in brightness.

“I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“I CONSENT.”

He started with the head and worked his way back. With Enola’s body, he was much carefuller than he had been with the floor, using less soap and making sure he rinsed it as well as he could before moving on.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” Enola asked after some time. By now, Kaveh had started on Enola’s right arm, which presented some challenges, as parts of his hands were beneath him.

“Because you need help, and no one else is helping you.”

“I DO NOT SEEK HELP.”

“I can see that. But I hope you reconsider. I don’t want you to die.”