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She glanced up at Lucky, and he met her gaze with a smile and a question in his eyes: Was she okay, or did she want to leave? She gave him a half nod, conveying her willingness to stay longer, then marveled that, even after a six-year absence, they still knew each other well enough to communicate without saying a word.

Hassan threw down the PS5 controller after losing in the final rounds of his last FIFA game. “I’m bored. Let’s go do something,” he said.

Deepak stretched his legs and yawned. “Like what? It’s almost dinnertime. Want to hit the chai shop?”

“I have a better idea,” Hassan said, eyes shining with new mischief. “I know where the American customs officers are billeted. Are you all up for some fun?”

Fifteen minutes later, Dina and Lucky, dressed respectively in Maple Leafs and Toronto Blue Jays jerseys borrowed from Deepak, stood in front of a small bungalow in an unassuming neighborhood a few minutes’ drive from the town house complex. Deepak and Hassan had changed into their Canadian customs uniforms, and once they were arranged in a line, nodded at Dina, who turned on the large portable speaker they had brought with them. A familiar tune started to blare:

O Canada!

Our home and native land . . .

The Canadian national anthem blasted from the speaker, and Dina watched blinds open in nearby homes, curtains shoved aside up and down the street, and doors opening as neighbors poked their heads outside, wondering at this sudden nationalist outburst. Lucky and Dina couldn’t help but laugh as Deepak and Hassan danced around the speaker, their bhangra dance moves interspersed with early 2000s crunking.

“Brrrap brrrap,” Deepak crowed, fingers pointed in the air. “O Canada, you know we’re the one!”

Hassan jumped up and down next to his friend, and even Lucky joined in with some dance moves of his own. Dina was laughing so hard her stomach hurt.

Three burly white men emerged from the bungalow, their hair cut in short fades, two of them dressed in US Army T-shirts. They glared at the impromptu dance crew, muscled arms crossed.

“Not this again,” one of them called, a redheaded man with florid cheeks. “Hassan, you promised!”

Deepak continued to dance, and Hassan started to sing alongside the anthem. Lucky joined in, and then so did Dina. The Americans watched, deeply unimpressed, as the quartet finished singing “O Canada,” and when they came to the anthem’s resounding end, there was a smattering of applause from the neighbors.

“All right, Deepak, you’ve had your fun,” the man in the center, wearing a US Navy T-shirt, his blond hair cut short, said. “We were trying to get some sleep for our late shift. Get out of here.”

“I’m awake now,” the redheaded man complained. “The usual?” he called to Deepak, who responded with a raised middle finger.

“What’s the usual?” Dina asked, and Hassan turned to her, grinning.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Aunty’s Diner was styled after a typical American diner, with black-and-white-checkered floors and red leather booths, except the menu was straight out of the Punjab heartland, with cholay, saag paneer, chicken and mutton kabobs, paratha stuffed with cauliflower or masala potatoes, and poori, a fried flatbread, served with sweet halwa and pots of freshly brewed, heavily spiced chai. Their party of seven settled at a large booth in the back. From the way Deepak was greeted by the servers, it was clear they were regulars.

Hassan introduced the US Customs officers to Dina and Lucky: the blond man was Chris, the redhead was Luke, and Henry, a quiet man with a brown fade, completed the trio. “I’ve been craving some of that aloo paratha,” Chris said, pronouncing it “ah-lu prattle” and rubbing his hands together.

“I thought we agreed you would never try to pronounce Indian words again, chutiya,” Deepak said.

Chris flipped him the finger. “Shut up, Canada. Why don’t you go tap some maple syrup or something.”

“At least I’m tapping something,” Deepak shot back. “And if I get hurt, I won’t have to sell a kidney to pay for the medical. Sorry, Lucky.”

Lucky threw a napkin at his friend, not meeting Dina’s gaze. Leaving her to wonder if Deepak’s comment meant what she thought—had Lucky’s family dealt with medical debt, a result of his father’s illness in Chicago? She felt her stomach drop, thinking of all that Lucky had been through since she had last seen him. Experiences and memories she had no idea about, and that Arshad had never mentioned to her. A deliberate choice, or simply the result of her ex-husband’s narcissism? Who could say.

The teasing and trash-talking continued, but once the food arrived, their party turned to the serious task of demolishing their meals. Dina, still full from the cholay Deepak’s mother had prepared, nibbled at the vada she had ordered, crispy fried lentil fritters served with sambar, a type of dhal cooked with vegetables and coconut mint chutney. Beside her, Lucky seemed similarly full, because he only had half a paratha and some palak paneer. As the men moved from personal insults to trash-talking their respective bosses, Dina leaned over to Lucky.

“I didn’t know about your dad,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.” “To God we belong, and to Him we return”—the Quranic verse every Muslim offered at the news of death.

Lucky’s shoulders hunched reflexively. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “It was quick, relatively speaking. He was diagnosed with lung cancer six months after we moved to Chicago. He didn’t survive the year.”

The words landed like a stone in Dina’s chest. She knew, from the bits and pieces she had picked up from Lucky over their years in law school, that he had a difficult relationship with his father. But to lose a parent at a relatively young age, so soon after the move to a new country for that same parent’s business, must have been both devastating and destabilizing. She did the math—Lucky’s father died around the time of her wedding.

“Did Arshad know?” she asked.

Lucky shrugged. “He sent a card, so I guess he did.”

Her ex had never said anything to her about it. Why keep it from her? Because he didn’t want you to reach out to Lucky, a voice whispered.