Rearview Mirror

Amadou's phone pinged. Another ride request. Four minutes away. He swiped to accept, checked his rearview mirror, and pulled away from the curb. His Toyota Prius hummed quietly as it merged into London's morning traffic.

The dashboard display showed 7:42 AM. If the day continued at this pace, he might finish early enough to assist Dr. Kendall at the makeshift clinic tonight. The thought both energized and terrified him.

"Pierre Alexandre. 4.92 stars," announced the app in its robotic voice. Not his name. Not his rating. His cousin's. The reminder stung every time.

Rain tapped against the windshield, the wipers keeping rhythm with the Senegalese music playing softly through the car speakers. Amadou adjusted his posture, straightened his collar, and prepared his smile. Survival demanded perfection.

He pulled up to a glass and steel office building in Canary Wharf. A woman in her forties, wrapped in an expensive camel coat, hurried toward the car, eyes fixed on her phone. She climbed into the backseat without looking up.

"Good morning," Amadou said, his accent carefully modulated – not too French, not too West African. The balance he'd perfected over years.

"Morning," she mumbled, still not looking up. "Victoria Station, please."

Amadou nodded and pulled away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, he could see her typing frantically on her phone, face illuminated by the blue light of the screen.

"Terrible weather today," he offered.

She glanced up briefly. "Yes, quite," then returned to her phone.

Amadou fell silent, focusing on navigating the wet streets. This was often how it went – people climbing into his car, existing in the same space but living in different worlds. Sometimes he preferred it this way. Fewer questions meant fewer lies.

His phone buzzed. Not the Uber app, but his personal phone mounted discreetly on the dashboard. The screen showed "Dr. K." Amadou's heart raced. Dr. Kendall rarely called during morning hours unless it was urgent.

He tapped his earpiece. "Yes?"

"Amadou, I'm sorry to call so early." Kendall's voice was tense. "The Somali woman, the one with the infected cesarean? Her fever's spiked. We need to drain the abscess today, can't wait until tonight."

Amadou glanced in the rearview mirror. His passenger remained absorbed in her phone.

"I understand," he said carefully. "What time?"

"Two o'clock. I've got the space secured for three hours. Can you make it?"

Amadou checked the clock. If the rides kept coming steadily, he could reach his daily target by one, maybe earlier.

"Yes, I'll be there."

"Thank God. I'd do it myself, but—"

"I know," Amadou interrupted gently. Dr. Kendall was a competent GP, but abdominal surgery was beyond his expertise. "I'll see you at two."

The call ended. In the backseat, the woman hadn't even looked up.

Fifteen minutes later, Amadou pulled up to Victoria Station. The woman finally put her phone down and rummaged through her handbag for her wallet.

"Actually, no need. It's already paid through the app," Amadou said.

She looked at him properly for the first time. "Oh, right. Thank you." As she gathered her things, she asked, "Been driving long?"

"About three years now," Amadou replied – another rehearsed truth-adjacent answer.

"Good for you. Must be nice to be your own boss, set your own hours."

Amadou gave his practiced smile. "Yes, the flexibility is good."

As she stepped out, she finally noticed the small photograph taped to his dashboard – his three children, smiling in front of the London Eye.

"Lovely kids," she said, sounding genuinely warm for the first time.

"Thank you. They are my world."

Something in his voice must have touched her because she paused, door half-closed. "Have a good day, then."

"You too, madam."

As she disappeared into the station, Amadou allowed himself a moment of longing for the life he'd had before – the surgical theater at Saint-Louis Hospital in Dakar, the respect in his colleagues' eyes, the certainty that his children would grow up proud of their father.

The Uber app pinged again. Two minutes away.

By eleven, Amadou had completed eight rides. Each passenger a unique universe – a businessman loudly discussing stock options on his phone; a tourist couple arguing over their itinerary; a young man with red-rimmed eyes heading home after what was clearly a night shift or a very long party.

His next pickup was at a primary school in Islington. A harried-looking father stood with a boy of about ten, who clutched his stomach and looked miserable.

"Thanks for coming quickly," the father said as they climbed in. "London Hospital, please. My son's appendix is acting up."

Amadou glanced at the boy in his rearview mirror. Pale, sweating slightly, hunched over to the right.

"How long has he been in pain?" Amadou asked, pulling away from the curb faster than usual.

The father looked surprised at the question. "Since last night. Got worse this morning."

"Where exactly is the pain?" Amadou asked, his mind shifting involuntarily into diagnostic mode.

The boy pointed to his lower right abdomen.

"Does it hurt more when I hit a bump?" Amadou asked, deliberately driving over a small pothole.

The boy winced. "Yes."

"Has he vomited?"

The father narrowed his eyes, suspicious now. "Twice this morning. Why all the questions?"

Amadou backtracked. "My nephew had appendicitis last year. Same symptoms. I'm sorry about the bumps, but if it is appendicitis, we should get him there quickly."

The father relaxed slightly. "Right, yes. The school nurse said the same thing."

Amadou navigated through traffic with practiced efficiency, taking shortcuts where he could. The boy's symptoms were textbook – McBurney's point tenderness, rebound pain, nausea. Classic appendicitis presentation.

They reached the hospital in record time. As the father helped his son out, he looked at Amadou with genuine gratitude.

"Thank you for getting us here so quickly."

Amadou nodded. "I hope he feels better soon."

As they walked toward the emergency entrance, Amadou watched them through his windshield. In a few hours, a surgeon would be removing the boy's inflamed appendix. A simple procedure. One Amadou had performed hundreds of times.

He swallowed the bitter taste of loss and pulled away from the hospital entrance.

By one-thirty, Amadou had reached his daily target. He was about to switch off the app and head toward the abandoned community center in Hackney where Dr. Kendall operated his underground clinic. The dashboard clock pressured him. He needed to be there soon.

His phone pinged with a ride request. He nearly declined it, but the pickup location was on his way. One more quick fare wouldn't hurt.

The passenger was a middle-aged man in an impeccable suit, carrying a leather briefcase. He slid into the backseat with the confident ease of someone accustomed to being driven.

"Belgravia, please," the man said, providing a specific address. "I'm Charles, by the way."

Amadou nodded, making eye contact in the rearview mirror. "Pierre. Nice to meet you."

The man smiled, but there was something calculated in it. "I think we both know that's not your name, Dr. Diallo."

Amadou's blood turned to ice. He kept his face neutral, but his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry?"

"Amadou Diallo. Graduate of Cheikh Anta Diop University, former chief of surgery at Saint-Louis Hospital in Dakar. Granted asylum in the UK in 2017, status revoked in 2021." The man recited the facts of Amadou's life as if reading from a dossier. "Currently residing illegally in the UK, driving under your cousin's Uber account while performing underground surgeries for immigrants and... other interesting clientele."

Amadou's mind raced. Immigration enforcement? Police? Or something worse?

"I think you have mistaken me for someone else," Amadou said, forcing his voice to remain steady.

The man chuckled. "No, I don't think so. Turn left here, please. We're making a slight detour."

"Sir, I need to follow the route in the app—"

"We both know you can cancel the ride, Dr. Diallo. In fact, I suggest you do so now. Tell the app you've completed the journey. I'll compensate you for your time, of course."

Amadou's options flashed through his mind. He could stop the car, demand the man get out. He could drive to a police station. But the man knew who he was, which meant he likely had proof. And if authorities got involved, everything would unravel – his presence in the UK, his children's stability, the clinic...

He canceled the ride as instructed and turned left.

"Where are we going?" Amadou asked, his mouth dry.

"Just a few blocks away. My associate requires your professional expertise."

Understanding dawned. "You need a doctor."

The man's reflection nodded in the rearview mirror. "Indeed. One who won't ask questions or file reports. One who values discretion above all else."

"I have an appointment at two. Someone who genuinely needs medical help."

"This won't take long, and my associate's need is rather... pressing. Gunshot wound to the shoulder. Clean through, but bleeding heavily."

Amadou's medical instincts surfaced despite his fear. "How long ago?"

"About an hour. He's stable but needs proper treatment."

"I'll need supplies—"

"We have everything ready. Military-grade medical kit. Just need the hands of a surgeon."

Amadou turned down a side street lined with expensive townhouses. The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening.

"Pull up here," the man instructed, pointing to a black door with polished brass fixtures.

Amadou parked and turned to face his passenger. "Who are you? How do you know about me?"

The man's smile was thin. "Let's just say I'm someone who appreciates talent and discretion. You've been providing both to various parties in London for some time now. Word gets around in certain circles."

"And if I refuse to help?"

The man's expression hardened slightly. "Then I'd have to question why I'm protecting your rather complicated immigration status. Immigration enforcement would be very interested in your situation, I imagine. Not to mention what would happen to that little clinic you and Dr. Kendall run."

Amadou felt sick. "So blackmail, then."

"I prefer to think of it as mutually beneficial cooperation. You help my associate today, I help protect your... arrangement. Fair exchange."

Amadou looked through the windshield at the elegant townhouse. Whatever waited inside wasn't good – these weren't people who played by rules or showed mercy. But neither did they seem like people who made idle threats.

"Your associate can come to the car. I'll examine him here."

Charles frowned. "That's not how this works—"

"It's how it works with me," Amadou said, surprised by his own firmness. "I'm already late for another patient. A woman with a post-cesarean infection who could die without treatment. I'll help your associate, but I'm not leaving this car."

Charles studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Wait here." He stepped out of the car and walked to the townhouse door.

Amadou gripped the steering wheel, considering his options. He could drive away now, disappear, start over somewhere else. But his children's school was here. Their home. Their future.

The townhouse door opened. Charles emerged, supporting a younger man whose right shoulder was wrapped in a bloody towel. They moved slowly toward the car.

Amadou took a deep breath and opened his trunk with the dashboard button. Inside was his medical bag – not the full surgical kit he kept at the clinic, but enough for emergency field treatment.

Charles helped the wounded man into the backseat. The man's face was ashen, his breathing shallow.

"GSW to right deltoid," Amadou said clinically, reaching for his bag. "Entry and exit wounds?"

"Yes," Charles confirmed. "Through and through."

Amadou worked swiftly, his hands remembering what his mind wanted to forget. He cleaned, packed, and bandaged the wound, administered antibiotics from his emergency supply, and set up a makeshift sling using items from his first aid kit.

"This will hold for now," he said, feeling the young man's pulse. "But he needs proper medical attention. Blood transfusion, possibly surgical exploration to check for arterial damage."

"You've done enough," Charles said. "Thank you."

The wounded man said nothing, his eyes unfocused from pain and blood loss.

"He needs a hospital," Amadou insisted.

"We have other arrangements," Charles said dismissively. He helped the young man out of the car and back toward the townhouse. Before closing the car door, he leaned in. "You've proven quite valuable, Dr. Diallo. We'll be in touch."

"I need to go," Amadou said, checking the time. Almost two-thirty now.

"Of course. But one more thing." Charles reached into his pocket and handed Amadou a burner phone. "Keep this with you. When it rings, answer. Consider it your insurance policy against immigration troubles."

The door closed. Amadou stared at the cheap phone in his hand, understanding with sickening clarity what had just happened. He hadn't just treated a criminal; he'd been recruited.

His Uber phone pinged with a new ride request, but he ignored it. Instead, he called Dr. Kendall.

"I'm on my way," he said when Kendall answered. "Prepare the patient. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"She's getting worse, Amadou. Where have you been?"

Amadou looked in the rearview mirror, studying his own reflection – the face of a man who had once taken an oath to do no harm, now caught in an impossible web of survival.

"I had an emergency," he said. "I'm coming now."

He ended the call and pulled away from the curb, the burner phone heavy in his pocket. Through the windshield, London unfolded before him – beautiful, indifferent, dangerous. His temporary sanctuary and his permanent trap.

The clock on the dashboard read 2:36 PM. Amadou pressed the accelerator, racing toward one patient while knowing in his heart that he had just acquired many more. His car, once his mobile prison, now felt like the only safe place left in his world.

His phone pinged again. A new ride request. The name on the screen made him slam on the brakes.

"Amadou Diallo. Pickup: Current Location."

He stared at the phone. It was impossible. That name – his real name – couldn't be in the system.

The ping came again, insistent. Same name. Same request.

With trembling fingers, Amadou accepted the ride. The car idled at the curb as he waited, watching the rearview mirror, seeing his past and future converging in its reflection.

A woman approached the car. Tall, confident stride, government suit. She opened the door and slid into the backseat.

"Dr. Diallo," she said, not a question but a confirmation. "I believe we have much to discuss about your future in the United Kingdom."

Amadou met her eyes in the rearview mirror, knowing that whatever happened next would determine everything – for him, for his children, for the patients who needed him.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked.

She smiled, enigmatic and assured. "Just drive. We have all the time in the world."

The car pulled away from the curb, carrying Amadou toward an unknown destination.