The asphalt crunched beneath Barry’s feet. So this was America. A cruel place where a man could be thrown off the street because of the color of his skin, the cut of his watch. It was disgraceful. He didn’t want any part of it. Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn back. He could picture it all. His office, Seema’s fine body, an endless stream of macchiatos and uni rolls. A Manhattan life for a Manhattan man. He could rejoin the winners’ circle.