I am waiting to turn left at an intersection. A driver cuts me off, we make eye contact, and I am caught in the endless loop of a memory I thought I had left behind eight years ago in Afghanistan. I begin to feel panicked. I’m driving beside a railroad in Edmonton, Canada, and the train tracks prevent me from turning. I run two red lights, wondering if a vehicle is following me, then bump over a curb and cut into a back alley. I lurch behind houses and garages, turn right, then left, trying to avoid an explosion caused by a suicide bomber whose shadow trails me. After twenty minutes my heart rate calms. The burger I just purchased is cold, the fries stiff, the soft drink warm.