The man sitting in front of me wears a Multnomah County Fair t-shirt. He has light eyes and an auburn beard and speaks intensely. Our knees touch as he offers me freshly sliced apples on a red plastic plate. Their fragrance wraps around us like a cloud and I struggle to focus on the questions I am asking him about how his brother's eye came to have a pellet in it. He offers the apples once again as I leave, gently mocking: "They're not dirty." I smile weakly and pick two pieces and a whole apple and my mouth waters as my stomach knots with an impossible apology for my country, occupying his.
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