From Tehran to Texas

From Tehran to Texas

There’s a man who stands just outside the playground where I take my daughters on Sundays. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move much. Doesn’t have children. But he’s there — same spot, same hour — leaning quietly against the fence. He isn’t doing anything wrong. But something’s off. Not overtly. Not enough to call out. Just enough to notice. He doesn’t fit — not in any way you can articulate, but in the way your instincts catch before your mind does. …