As I focus, the melody begins to crystalize and I realize what it is, the ezan, the Islamic call to prayer.
“Where are you from?” The woman in the food truck pushes two iced coffees toward us.
“Oregon,” I say.
“But my mom lives here,” Kelly added. “We’re just visiting.”
I add cane sugar to my coffee and stir. I notice that the ice cubes are made out of coffee and shaped like stars. I take a sip and the sugar is grainy. I feel it crunch between my teeth.
It’s scary and weird and hard to think about leaving Portland.