Deangelo Cesare Alinari/Kyle Morgan Aspen

Dakar. A year ago, seventeen-year-old Deangelo Alinari hadn’t had a clue it even existed, but now, standing among the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk outside the American Embassy, Kyle Aspen felt like the African city could become home.

As he walked out of the building, his passport and official documents safely tucked away in his duffle bag, he exhaled his first relieved breath in what felt like years. He still had a long way to go in terms of settling into his new life — finding a job and a permanent residence, for example — but at least he felt free of his family’s clutches. They’d never think to look for him in Dakar of all places.

Leaving the United States had been one of the hardest decisions of his young life, but Deangelo had felt he’d had no other choice. Changing his name was just one countermeasure against being found by his uncle, Giacomo Alinari; as much as he’d hated to give up his name, he’d known it was necessary.

That night, lying on sheets that scratched his skin if he moved even the slightest bit, he closed his eyes and remembered.
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