Chapter 4

Narrative: Aisha Johnson

After our experience with Ian’s family and the peculiar yet amusing encounter between him and his other self, the alternate Ian offered financial support. In the days that followed, Ian spent hours talking with himself, and I found their rapport strangely enjoyable—conversing with someone who mirrored every facet of his existence. The way they bonded over shared memories, engineering expertise, and intellect made it feel as though he’d found his ideal confidant.

We managed to secure a more permanent residence in a modest apartment just outside the main town where the rent was considerably more affordable.

Naomi was adapting to this new life, though she still struggled with the challenges. Yet gradually, she began comprehending what it meant to exist in this unfamiliar world. Tentatively venturing out on her own with some money we provided, she started purchasing food rather than seizing it from someone’s grasp.

I had yet to contact Dominic or even my other self; I maintained my distance while mentally bracing for that inevitable meeting. Fear gripped me as I wondered whether a similar outcome awaited—an echo of Ian’s fractured reunion.

Lately, something peculiar has been occurring in my sleep—I’ve been dreaming about my younger brother Jacob. These visions reveal moments I don’t recall experiencing: scenes where he’s in his car, accompanied by his two mixed-race children and Dominic. It feels as though I’m reliving parts of my life from when Dominic was only five years old.

In my dreams I found myself in his apartment, holding Sophia, his white wife, as she wept in my arms. The experience was so vivid that it felt entirely real, leaving me unsettled yet strangely moved by its authenticity.

Narrative: Ian McGregor

I wouldn’t say life was returning to normal—because for us, normal meant combing the jungle on that island, fishing in its waters, gathering fruit, and hunting small game while Naomi pursued her prized quarry: the wild boars. Although Aisha opposed it and I gave my hesitant approval, I understood that the young woman thrived on such challenges.

We had managed to secure a modest apartment equipped with a television set. Naomi would park herself in front of it, watching endless hours of cartoons and saccharine romance shows that made my stomach churn—but she absolutely adored them. Oh boy, I mused silently, praying she wouldn’t succumb to that typical teenage trap where she’d fly off the handle whenever we insisted it was time for bed.

Narrative: Naomi McGregor

My legs ached from sitting too long, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the television. Mom kept calling my name, yet her voice barely registered over the dramatic scene unfolding before me—I simply had to know whether Lanslo and Tina would finally get back together. Dad tried explaining that what I saw wasn’t genuine; he claimed those people were merely “actors,” though I didn’t fully understand what that meant. To me, everything looked utterly real.

I had settled things with the man at the food truck by giving him ten dollars for the food I’d taken and saying I was sorry, just like my parents said I should do. At first, I grew really anxious because when he looked at me, it seemed like he might send me away—until I handed over the money.

I had explained to him that I was on my own and separated from my parents at that moment. He seemed to understand and showed some sympathy. He thanked me sincerely, telling me I did well by approaching him. He added that if ever I found myself needing help again, all I needed to do was ask—he’d gladly give me a meal without charge.

It gave me the sense that there’s a method to navigating this strange new place. On the island, every meal felt like a battle—I constantly scouted for opportunities, never having anyone besides my parents to grant approval.

As I continued along the sidewalk, I noticed a black-and-white vehicle cruising nearby. The officers inside wore uniforms similar to those worn by the men who had taken my parents. Their car appeared to trail me deliberately, and when I glanced their way, their attention was fixed directly on me. Recalling my parents’ warning about the police, I forced myself to look forward instead of fleeing as every instinct urged me to do.

Why were they following me? My anxiety swelled as they halted and emerged from their vehicle. “Excuse me miss,” the officer addressed me as I turned to face him, his words clipped. “Where are you going?” he questioned. Fear tightened my chest as I simply answered, “Home.”

The second officer exited the patrol car, stepping directly into my path. His imposing frame loomed before me, radiating hostility. He leaned in slightly, his expression harsh as he asked, “Out for a stroll are we?” My brow knitted together in confusion at his remark. Out for a stroll? What exactly did he mean by that? I struggled to comprehend as I replied, “I don’t understand.”

“What do you want?” I demanded sharply, irritation prickling at my skin. Their presence made no sense—had I stolen a meal? Had I attacked someone? Had I taken money? Not this time.

“It looks like we have a little feisty one here!” he said to his partner as the other man smirked. “Turn and face the car and put your hands there,” he barked, I recoiled, what is happening? I was about to bolt until a stranger—a Black woman—came beside me talking to them, “Excuse me officer! What is your reason for questioning this girl?” she said, I didn’t know this person but she was angry.

“That’s not your concern,” he said dismissively before turning back to me. “Oh, but it is,” the stranger interjected firmly. “I need to know why she’s being stopped. I’m an attorney, and I can clearly see that your presence is intimidating this young lady. So I ask again—what is the reason for detaining her?”

The officer glared at the stranger, his irritation palpable. He shot a brief glance at his partner before snarling, “Let’s go,” and they both retreated to their patrol car without another word.

As they left she turned to me, “Are you okay?” I looked at her bewildered as I nodded, “I don’t know why they stopped me” I said as she sighed, “It’s a fight we all are facing on a daily basis, my dear” she said, what fight I thought to myself.

“My name is Tasha,” she asked, her voice steady. “And yours?” I managed to answer, my voice trembling slightly as I said, “Naomi.” With a reassuring nod she reached into her purse and retrieved a small card, which she pressed gently into my hand. The crisp paper bore her name – Tasha Reynolds, Esq. – along with her title and contact information, Civil Rights Law, specializing in Police Misconduct, Civil Rights, and Discrimination cases.

“Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need legal help,” Tasha said softly as I stared at her in confusion. My mind raced with questions, but all I could manage was a hesitant “Okay.” She offered one last reassuring smile before turning and disappearing down the sidewalk, leaving me alone with the card clutched tightly in my trembling hand.

Narrative: Aisha Johnson

I glanced at the clock, realizing Naomi had been gone far too long. We’d granted her a bit of independence since staying cooped up inside was taking its toll on her well-being. She needed fresh air and space to roam, and though we’d accompanied her on countless walks before, today we let her venture out on her own—making certain she knew our address and how to find her way back home.

We had given Naomi her own phone and carefully explained how to make and answer calls. Just as I prepared to dial her number, a knock sounded at the door. Relief flooded through me as I opened it. “Everything okay?” I asked, but Naomi stood there looking dazed and confused.

“Some men in blue uniforms stopped me on the street,” Naomi stammered, her voice trembling. My pulse quickened instantly; I knew exactly whom she meant—the police. Oh god, why would they target my baby? What could they possibly want from her? “Tell me what happened,” I urged, struggling to steady my own voice as concern tightened my chest.

She detailed every moment of the encounter, and I listened intently. It was obvious there had been no legitimate reason for them to detain her—my daughter, with her mixed heritage, had been unfairly profiled by those officers. A cold dread seeped into my bones as I considered the potential repercussions for Naomi, especially when she mentioned the attorney who assisted her during the ordeal. The lawyer’s card felt heavy in my palm as I absorbed the weight of what had just transpired.

I dialed the number. “Hello?” came Tasha’s voice on the line. I swallowed hard and replied, “This is Aisha Johnson. You assisted my daughter Naomi with the police earlier today.”

“Oh yes,” she responded immediately. “I saw those two officers being quite aggressive toward her—they left as soon as I informed them I was a lawyer, a privilege not afforded to many Black people. How is she holding up?”

My throat constricted with emotion as I answered softly, “She’s alright ... just a bit unsettled by everything.”

“I can’t thank you enough for helping my baby,” I said, my voice thick with gratitude. “She isn’t used to these kinds of discriminations.” On the other end, Tasha replied warmly, “You’re very welcome, Miss Johnson. It’s just a shame we always have to be on guard like this.” I gave a silent nod as her words settled over me. Before hanging up, she added, “Please don’t hesitate to call if you ever need representation—I’m here to help.” With that promise in mind, I carefully tucked away her business card.

I held Naomi close, the memory of those easier days on the island flooding back. Years with Ian, where color had never mattered, now seemed a distant dream. In this place, every moment since our arrival two weeks ago had been marked by hostility—my assault, Naomi’s profiling. The harsh reality of it all rushed over me, explaining why I’d always fought so fiercely for our community and remained forever vigilant.