Soot serves as the protagonist of the novel’s parallel narrative, acting as a somber and introspective foil to the main narrator’s more flamboyant style. A 44-year-old author, Soot’s life is defined by overwhelming grief following the death by suicide of his daughter, Mia. His work involves traveling to communities, particularly college campuses, that have been shattered by gun violence, forcing him to inhabit a space of perpetual mourning. This professional obligation mirrors his internal state, as he is trapped in the trauma of his personal loss.

Soot’s defining characteristic is his method of coping, which he describes as a form of time travel. This is not a literal ability but a psychological mechanism for reliving and re-examining past moments with his daughter and ex-wife, illustrating how memory can become both a sanctuary and a prison. By repeatedly returning to the past, Soot avoids confronting a future without Mia, rendering him a largely static character whose journey is circular rather than linear. His inability to leave his family land, where his daughter died, further conveys his rootedness in this trauma. His character provides an of The Psychological Scars of Systemic Violence, portraying trauma as an ongoing condition that reshapes one’s perception of time and reality. The gun that his daughter used when she died by suicide, which he now carries for protection, is a symbol of his complicated relationship with violence, safety, and culpability. His journey is a search for an explanation or absolution that the past cannot provide.

Dylan is a young, intelligent, and deeply conflicted Black American expatriate who serves as the narrator’s guide in Europe. Initially presented as a sophisticated and self-assured assistant to the billionaire Frenchie, Dylan’s polished exterior conceals profound trauma and a fractured sense of identity. The narrator’s initial insistence on seeing him as “The Kid,” an imaginary figure from his past, underscores Dylan’s metaphorical role as a representative of a lost or wounded innocence.

A round and dynamic character, Dylan’s arc reveals the lasting impact of American violence. His “condition,” which causes him to enter a catatonic state, is eventually revealed to be a post-traumatic response to a school shooting he experienced. This backstory connects him directly to the theme of the psychological scars of systemic violence, showing how trauma can manifest physically and emotionally years after an event. Dylan’s struggle is central to The Search for Belonging as a Marginalized People. Having left the United States in search of a place where he can “breathe better” (221), he finds that his history is inescapable. His emotional breakdown, in which he laments being “from America, but none of us are of it” (184), is a poignant expression of the pain of diaspora and the feeling of being an outsider everywhere. He yearns for a home where he is not an “other” but finds that such a place may not exist, making his journey a tragic exploration of the search for an identity untethered from a traumatic national history.

Remus is the primary antagonist and catalyst in the narrator’s journey. He is an enigmatic and physically imposing older Black man who appears in a Los Angeles alley to threaten the narrator’s life, propelling him to flee to Europe. Remus embodies a trickster archetype, blending genuine menace with a strange, folksy charm and a storytelling impulse that mirrors the narrator’s own. He is often seen whistling, while commenting on the narrator’s life and appearing at a valuable time to save Dylan’s life. His motivations remain shrouded in mystery, making his presence a source of constant, unpredictable tension.

Remus’s character is defined by contradictions. He threatens violence yet shows a bizarre, almost paternal concern for the narrator’s dental health. He stalks the narrator across the globe but also offers cryptic wisdom and seems to guide him toward some form of confrontation with himself. The horrific scars on his back suggest a history of extreme violence, positioning him as both a perpetrator and a victim of the brutal realities the narrator is trying to escape. Remus acts as a manifestation of the inescapable nature of American violence and history. He is a ghost from “back home” who proves that geographical distance offers no true safety. His final assertion that “We brought it all with us—people like us, I mean” (258) underscores the idea that identity, trauma, and history are portable burdens.

Frenchie is an eccentric and immensely wealthy French billionaire who serves as the narrator’s benefactor. An ardent admirer of the narrator’s work, he orchestrates the European book tour and becomes the architect of the narrator’s potential exile. He is a joyful figure whose immense power allows him to operate on a different plane of reality. His motivation is to preserve what he sees as a dying version of America by turning the narrator into a “record keeper of the way America used to be” (79). Frenchie is the literal embodiment of the “Other Continent,” offering the narrator a gilded cage of safety, wealth, and creative freedom. His proposal of “[REDACTED] million dollars” (69) in exchange for never returning to the United States is the central proposition of the novel, forcing the narrator to weigh the value of home against the promise of a life free from the pressures that define his American experience. Frenchie’s collection of unpublished works by Black American expatriates like James Baldwin and Nina Simone positions him as a curator of Black genius, yet his desire to possess and contain these narratives reveals a complex relationship with Black American art and suffering; rather than sharing it with the world, he fatalistically believes that the world cannot be trusted with it.

Kelly is a figure from the narrator’s past who re-enters his life in Europe, becoming a romantic interest and a key member of his expatriate community. A funeral director by trade, she left America to “outrun the bullets” (148) after being overwhelmed by the increasing number of young victims of gun violence she had to prepare for burial. Her profession gives her a uniquely intimate and pragmatic perspective on death, contrasting with the more abstract or traumatic ways other characters process it.

Kelly serves as a grounding presence for the narrator. Her seemingly supernatural ability to hear his internal monologue, or his inability to hide his thoughts from her, forces a level of honesty and intimacy that he typically avoids with his performative storytelling. She represents a fellow seeker of peace, another American who has chosen exile as a form of survival. Her journey explores whether a new life, and new love, can be built on the foundation of shared trauma and a mutual desire to escape a violent past.

The Goon, whose real name is never given, is a physically massive Black Scotsman who works for Frenchie as a driver, bodyguard, and guide. Despite his intimidating appearance, he is a friendly, loyal, and enthusiastic figure who provides both protection and moments of comic relief. His character serves to complicate notions of identity and belonging. Though Scottish by birth and accent, he reveals that his grandparents were from Alabama and emigrated after World War II. This heritage creates a deep, almost reverential connection to an American identity he has never directly experienced. His fascination with the American writer H.P. Lovecraft and his emotional reaction to firing the narrator’s pistol highlight his yearning for this inherited identity. He refers to the narrator as a “fellow American” (165), underscoring his feeling of kinship. The Goon demonstrates that the search for home and the complexities of diaspora are not limited to those who have recently left but can be powerful forces for generations.

Mia is Soot’s deceased daughter, who exists in the narrative exclusively through his “time travel” memories. She is portrayed as an intelligent, loving, and empathetic child and teenager, a “born fixer” (232) who was deeply attuned to the pain of others. Her character is not dynamic but rather a collection of idealized moments that Soot desperately clings to. She functions less as a fully realized character and more as the center of Soot’s grief and trauma. Her death by suicide with his gun is the event that has shattered his world and locked him in the past. In his memories, her dialogue often becomes a manifestation of his own internal conflicts, blurring the line between who she was and what he needs her to have been. She represents lost innocence and the ultimate, irreversible consequence of the pain and violence that permeate the novel.