Even as I say it, I know it’s impossible. Since he’s undocumented and in the system, Carlos won’t be allowed into the US for a long time. Am I even staying? Then I think, it doesn’t matter. Everything impossible for us and still we did it—we stayed together. As long as we could.

“My turn,” he says. He shoots his rock. Two bounces. “You have to keep remembering. To help your mother with your story. For immigration.”

“But it’s hard!”

“Paciencia.”

“Not my strong suit.”

“And you have to speak to your family in Pakistan.”

“Not fair!” I cry.

He makes a face. “Who said wishes are fair?”

I twist away. “I don’t want to ever talk to them.”

“Rania, my aunt, she did everything she could. It wasn’t her fault.” He looks at me, straight on. “Make your family fight for you. For your mother.”

Scraps of laughter, parents calling to their kids, scatter around us. The water softens everything, even our sadness. We stretch our arms over our heads. All of a sudden Carlos reaches for me and hugs me, tight. He never does that. I can feel him shaking.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, the sound buried in my neck.

“But I didn’t do anything! I didn’t save you!”

“No. You did something better.”

“What?”

“You let me in.” He gives me a soft squeeze. “More, it’s like you banged on my door and—”

“Pushed my way in,” I finish.

“It’s just—” He looks away. “I never let someone help me before.”

“Me neither,” I say softly.

We turn hushed as we drive the last leg from Plattsburgh. Down a local road, then a left, a right turn. A cluster of vans loom ahead—taxis, I realize—letting people out. All kinds of people—families, dragging their roller luggage; four tall guys with backpacks. They all seem to be headed down a narrow grassy path. Just beyond, there’s a makeshift concrete barrier, where a woman in a uniform stands. Beyond that, some white tents, the kind you see at street fairs.

A confused couple stagger toward us; I can hear snatches of Urdu. The wife’s crinkled shalwar sticks between her knees. The husband asks, “This is the border?”

“Yes, right here,” I say in Urdu, pointing.

The woman’s face breaks open in relief. “Thank you, beta.” She starts to pull her luggage but her arms tremble as her luggage bumps into the dirt path. “You are coming?” she asks. I shake my head.

The Canadian border guard is calling to the couple. “Do you have a valid visa?” The couple tell her no. “You do understand if you cross here, you will be arrested?”

The man answers, “But, madam, where else can we go?”