SASHAW
hen the Lyft arrived outside of LAX, the middle-aged driver with the kind eyes felt he had to explain first that he’d fled Iraq and loved America. “I’m going to get my citizenship. America is the greatest place in the world,” he repeated. “Praise Allah for letting me come to this country.”
“I’m Lebanese Armenian with some Iranian, on my mother’s side,” Sasha replied. She hoped to quiet him more than silence his fear. “Can we take La Cienega home instead of the 405?” She needed to keep moving, keep the car going. Her courage on the plane ride home had dissipated into dread. Think, Sasha. Remember what Peter’s done to your marriage.
A year, she reminded herself, it was a year she’d spent working on the lyrics for “Traveling Away from You,” perfecting the melody, making certain that
