“I mean, immigration. There was this raid. Some kind of problem with our application—” And then I tell them in one long gulp: about the night the men came in their black vests; about my mother’s asylum application, Mrs. Flannery and her mean eyes, and about Carlos who has been the only person to make me feel normal since this all started. I don’t know why I tell them so much. It’s not like me. I’m used to squeezing everything shut, tight, like a jar top. Just the way Ammi taught me. But there’s something about sitting opposite these two who I am supposed to call Auntie and Uncle.

When I look up, they both are half-frozen, faces stricken. I wish I could stuff it all back inside, every one of my words.

I spend dinner snatching glances at Uncle: his thick wrists, his bushy eyebrows, looking for signs of Ammi and me. He is related, but there are holes, gaps. One part of me wants to yell, Why don’t you just help us? Why aren’t you in touch with your own sister? But I swallow the words down. I think of what Carlos said: The bull doesn’t get what they want. The cat does. Carlos has endeared himself to everyone, making silly faces at Roshaan and Maira, who giggle and beg for more. I like him so much right now.

Shaima keeps apologizing for the state of the house. The packing is going slow, especially with two young ones—Roshaan and Maira, only a year apart. The boy is energetic, barreling through the house like a little linebacker—it’s his tricycle in the front. Maira, who has her father’s curly hair and wide, round face, keeps clinging to her mother’s legs as she cooks. I feel a pang because I want to scoop her up into my lap, but I can’t tell what’s allowed.

“You’re moving?” I ask.

“It appears so,” Salim Uncle says with a sigh.

“We’re returning to Lahore,” Shaima puts in. “We’ll stay with my parents.”

“But I thought you lived here!” I bang down my fork.

Carlos, who has kept quiet the whole time, is appreciatively scooping up his food. Shaima is a good cook, unlike Ammi, who does it distractedly. He answered a few questions from Uncle, explained that he had taken the ride because he is on his way to a relative in Boston, that he hopes to live there and go to art school. We both know it’s a lie. Or a half lie. We’re running on faint vapors, fantasies of how to right this strange trip we’re on.

“I was here on a work visa. Analytics for the bank. But the position I received was—”

“It was below your qualifications,” Shaima snaps. “Back home—”