I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

Typically, I do not chat during Uber rides, not out of misanthropy, but because I often email on the run.

This one morning, when my driver told the story of his friend Gabe, I put down my phone.

Both men came to the United States in the late 2000s,

immigrants from different countries, like millions before who fled political violence or sought better opportunities. Their friendship began as strangers on a fishing expedition.

When Gabe noticed that Ravi, my driver, struggled with his line and tackle, he approached

to help.

The two fished nearly every weekend for 20 years.

They purchased a used boat together, spent holidays in each other's homes,

celebrated their children's milestones. We were closer to each other than our own siblings,

Ravi said. He even followed his friend Gabe to Nashville. Two years ago, Gabe called one morning to say he could no longer go fishing

and hung up. For two weeks, Ravi's return calls were ignored. Confused and hurt by his friend's

abandonment, he showed up at his house after dropping off a passenger who lived nearby.

Gabe's wife answered the door. She told Ravi that Gabe had cancer. He was worried about receiving

care as an undocumented immigrant, so they were planning to return to their home country.

He was ashamed.

When Gabe emerged from behind his wife, Ravi said, old friend, let me help.

Ravi organized fundraisers and a GoFundMe campaign.

As his friend's health declined, he drove Gabe back and forth to surgeries and set hours through multiple chemo sessions.

Gabe did not survive.

But Ravi was proud to have cared for Gabe. He told me, I haven't

touched a fishing pole since. As Ravi shared his story of friendship, I thought of citizenship

...