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Mustafa is the only one in our advanced English class tonight. Eric sits beside me on the couch wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. He's American, but he's been running this refugee center in Thessaloniki, Greece for six years. "So Mustafa, any questions for Carrie? You need to practice your English," he says. Mustafa's dark eyes meet mine. He mutters something in a language I take to be Greek, and a sly smile creeps across his face. "What did he say?" I ask. Eric laughs. "He asked if you're my wife." He turns his gaze back to Mustafa. "No, she's not. C'mon, man, use your English." Mustafa pauses for a second before speaking again. "You from America?" he asks. I've been asked that question many times in the past week. "Yeah, I live in America. But I'm Canadian." His eyes widen. "Canada? It is cold there?" I laugh. "Yes, very cold." Another brief pause. His face tenses slightly as he formulates his next question. "Do you listen to Rihanna?" His accent is so thick I don't understand what he's asking at first until he starts singing her song, "Love the Way You Lie." I laugh. "Yeah, I listen to her sometimes." Eric turns to me. "So, Carrie, do you have any questions for Mustafa?" I'm not sure where to begin. "Where are you from?" "Tehran." "How did you end up in Thessaloniki? Mustafa is eager to tell his story. He begins in halted English, but the longer he speaks, the easier the words seem to come. Every now and then he looks over to Eric with questioning eyes when he's not sure of an English word. He mutters something in Greek and Eric answers in English. But other than those brief interruptions, I listen to his story for the remaining thirty minutes of class. He says he came to Greece two years ago. Shortly after arriving, he was caught by police and was held in jail because he entered the nation illegally. "What was the prison like?" He chuckles in the back of his throat. "I liked it." During his two-month stay in prison he had shelter and was fed daily, a luxury he hadn't had at home. He said he'd save some of his evening meal for breakfast, but he had to guard it or one of the other inmates would steal it. He tells me that he's been coming to the center ever since he was released from prison. "How old are you?" He asks, abruptly ending his narrative. "Twenty-one. How old are you?" "Seventeen."