ou seem lost, Miss. Are you looking for the American consulate station? I could tell, you see, by your hat and backpack and the documents you hold tight to your chest. It’s true that petty theft can be a risk in Casablanca, but I assure you the airport is a secure building. No one will take your papers away. Sit, sit. At a distance, of course, we both know the rules. Make yourself comfortable. It will be a few hours before the consular officers arrive, and, even then, it will take them a while to set up their table and start clearing passengers for departure.

How long have I been waiting? A long time, I’m sorry to say. These repatriation flights are for citizens only and—if space allows—residents. But apparently space has not allowed, at least not for the last two weeks. Every time I’ve put in a request, I’ve gotten the same answer: “Sorry, Ms. Bensaïd, the flight is full.” I thought of trying the airport in Tangier, but train service is closed, and in any case there are probably more people waiting there than here. The consular officers keep telling me I should be patient, I will have better luck next time.

The thing is, it was luck that brought me here in March. Ordinarily, I visit my family in the summer, when I am off from teaching, but early this year my brother announced that he was getting married. His fourth time, can you imagine? He scheduled the ceremony smack dab in the middle of my spring break, just to counter what he knew would be my immediate objection. Even so, I told him I couldn’t attend because I had plans to go to Texas with my bird-watching group. But he’s always had a knack for making me feel guilty. He brought up how thrilled our mother would be to see me, how she’s getting on in years, how I should take every chance I get to spend some time with her. I couldn’t say no to that.

Still, I was disappointed that my plans had been disrupted, so I scheduled a short trip to Merja Zerga, 140 miles north from here. Have you been? Oh, you’ll have to visit someday. It’s a tidal lagoon, a Ramsar-designated site in fact, home to an impressive variety of bird species. I wanted to see waders and marsh owls and, with any luck, flamingoes and marbled teals, which migrate through the area this time of year.

Before that, of course, I had to suffer through the wedding. It’s not that I don’t want to see my brother happy, you understand, it’s just that he has terrible taste in women. All of them young, naive, and in awe of him. At the ceremony—invariably a lavish celebration that saddled his in-laws with debt—he would stand beside his new wife as if he were posing for a fashion magazine. My role was to be the dowdy older sister, completing the family tableau by standing in the background, slightly out of focus.

I had played the part often enough that I arrived at the ceremony ready to take my cues. There were a hundred guests this time, a modest number by my brother’s standards, but still enough that it took a long time to make the rounds, being introduced to people and exchanging congratulations and well wishes. The bride’s parents were full of questions. “You live in California?” the father asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “In Berkeley.”

“And what do you teach?”

“Computer science,” my mother replied for me. It’s a point of pride for her, I think, because initially I said I wanted to be a painter, which she found impractical.

The father’s eyes widened, and there was a murmur as the news traveled to the aunts and uncles and cousins who stood nearby. California, someone whispered. Berkeley. But the bride was unimpressed; she peered at me with unbounded pity. “How hard it must be for you,” she said. Her voice was a squawk. Standing beside her, my brother nodded in agreement.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Living so far away.”

“Living anywhere can be hard.” Wait till you’ve lived with my dear brother, I thought, and then we’ll see who finds life so difficult.

But her attention was already drawn elsewhere. “The photographers are here,” she said.

We posed for pictures—the bride and the groom and their families and friends, in different permutations. I started to feel hot flashes coming on, even though I was in a sleeveless gown instead of a heavy caftan. I was rummaging through my purse for my hormone pills when the bride motioned for me to step out of the frame. “Now, let’s do one with Moroccans only.”

Can you believe it? I was about to say something sharp when my brother intervened. His new wife didn’t mean anything bad, he said, it was only that the color of my dress clashed with her caftan. He pulled me back into the frame, beaming his bleach-white smile for the photographers. But I don’t think he minded it all that much. Deep down he resents me because I left home at 18, while he lives in the house we grew up in, taking care of our mother. Maybe things between us would be different if he’d stayed single like me, instead of flitting from wife to wife every few years.

With all the commotion, I forgot to take my pills. After a few more minutes under the photographers’ lights, I got dizzy and tumbled down, catching the bride’s train to steady myself. The last thing I heard before I passed out was the flutter of the fabric as it fell to the floor.

The next day, I was preparing for my trip to Merja Zerga, feeling profound thrill at the thought of being on a boat in the lagoon, when I received word that Morocco was closing its borders. I rushed here to try to find a seat on an outbound flight, but no luck so far. Speaking of which, here come the consular officers. I recognize the young man in the blue shirt. He was here two days ago. He’s already walking in this direction; he must have noticed the blue passport in your hand. Go on. Perhaps I’ll see you on the other side.