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“This station is Birmingham New Street.” Stepping off the train, the calm voice fades behind me: “Please mind the gap between the train— ” I am anything but calm. I rush through the station, my legs whisking me through the unfamiliar hall towards a blustery January day. My fingers fumble as I order an Uber on my phone. When the driver pulls up, I leap into the front seat, eager for the short ride. After a few minutes of small talk, we sit in companionable silence and I gaze out the window. Fifteen minutes later, I am sitting on the floor of the main room in a small council house with my Uber driver and a Kurdish family drinking scalding hot tea. “This is my best friend from childhood!” The father, Mohammad*, beams across the room at me, gesturing to the driver, Rashid. “We’re from the same city. We went to school together!” Everyone in the family is smiling. They’re happy and healthy, a stark contrast to when I last saw them. “Come, I want to show you our room.” Zerya*, who is twenty-two, grabs my hand to lead me up the tiny staircase. Her sister, Chira*, only eight years old, chants behind us: “Our room! Our room! Our room!” It’s April. I’m in the van with Zerya, Chira, and a number of other women. I’ve made a wrong turn and Chira, then seven, sees the port. There’s a line of cars waiting to board the enormous white ferry. She squeals: “Britannia! Britannia! Britannia!” “What do you think?” Zerya gently nudges me into her room, which is flooded with late morning sunlight. It’s sparse, but clean. “This is my desk,” Zerya points to a simple white table, on which is lined a number of skin and hair care products. She picks one up and says, “Have you ever tried this? It saved my hair.” “Do you have any other shampoo? I think this one is making me lose some hair,” It’s May, and Zerya is in the back of the van. She is skinny, pale, and looks very tired. “Maybe it’s stress,” she sighs, walking away with a sad smile. Later, Zerya and I go for a walk. “My parents invited a man to the house to meet me.” Our arms are linked, braced against the wind which tugs at her headscarf. She tells me about the marriage proposals. “But I’m confused. I thought my father wanted me to focus on school. Besides, this man doesn’t yet have his papers.” It’s June. A man is standing near the van, asking why I’m there. I tell him I’m a volunteer and that I want to help. “Help? You marry me. Take me to UK.” I tell him I’m American and that my visa is ending soon. He laughs at me, shaking his head and says, “You also. You need papers.” The whole family piles into the car to take me back to the train station. “Next time,” Mohammad catches my eye in the rearview mirror, “you stay with us longer.” There’s too much traffic near the station, so I get out to walk the rest of the way. Zerya steps out to give me one last hug. “I’ll see you soon, Inshallah.” The July heat makes the tents unbearable and people sit about in what shade they can find around the camp in Grande Synthe, France. Zerya and I sit under a tree. “Last night my family tried by boat. The water was up to here.” She places her hand under her chin. I don’t know what to say, but Zerya just smiles and says, “I’m sad you are leaving, but next time I see you it will be in the UK, Inshallah.” *Names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.