Sand continued to drift in through the open doors. The overhead fan swirled the grit into our clothes, hair, eyes, teeth. The women wore their hijabs tight across their faces, their eyes cast down, stealing glances at James and me. It was hard to tell what they thought of us, the only white people at the crossing. Certainly they were suspicious—mostly of me, I sensed, even though my head was also covered.

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Dian Parker Dian Parker is a freelance writer who has published in a number of magazines and literary journals. She is currently working on a collection of narrative nonfiction. Email: dianparker9@gmail.com