He sighs. “It was not good. The prospect of you leaving set him off. Fawad has a temper. Sad to say, I think he was glad of what happened to Naved. He could use it in some way.”

My head spins. I watch the man walking backward on the path. That’s what I’m doing—walking backward into something old and terrible. I press the heel of my palm against my burning eyes. I don’t want to hear this. I say, “My mother has to get asylum. That’s the most important thing.”

“Asylum! What does she need that for? That’s for poor people.”

You have no idea, I think.

“Come, come, Rania. Why should you suffer? Come back to Pakistan. It will be so good. You will see your cousins! You’ll be where you belong. With family.”

I try to brace myself against him, the affection in his voice. “Ammi—”

“Your mother made her choice years ago.” He is cold. “It doesn’t have to be yours.”

Quiet stretches between us. His words sink into me. Is he right? I could go back. Or maybe we should slip over the border, just like Carlos. Why make everything so hard? I remember what Carlos said: Make your family fight for your mother. For you. I say, “Uncle, you have to help us. Help Ammi.”

“Didn’t I do that before? Signing that paper—”

“This is different.” Then I explain that he should make a statement for our appeal, about all he knew of her situation, the phone calls, Fawad’s threats, before we left.

“I need you to be her bhayia.” I say brother in Urdu, not English, drawing the sound out. As if to throw him a line, across the oceans and continents, back to us.

Even from far away I can see Fatima: walking down the path with two cups of coffee, her flip-flops snapping at her heels. I’m calmer. After the call, I walked around and around the park until my body stopped humming.

We hug, tight. “Fa-Fa,” I say.

“Ra-Ra.”

We breathe into each other.

“I brought you a coffee,” Fatima says, as she pulls away. “But you’ve already got one.”

“Mine’s cold.” I take the cup from her and pop open the top. “Thanks.”

Fatima sits down, and for the first time I see the milky tint to her skin, her arms like pale brown silk. Why didn’t I notice this before? She’s got blue eye shadow on her lids and thick eyeliner. Her hair has been brushed and sprayed into stiff ringlets. “What’s with the whole do?” I ask.

She tips her head down. “I went out. With a boy my parents picked.”

I make a face. “You’re kidding.”

“What, you don’t approve?”

“No, Fatima! It’s not that.”

Finally, she says, “Look, it’s just easier. If I do it, I can go to college this year.”

“I get it.”