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Is this the lobby? The carpet’s this awful shade of green, like mold. I’m pretty sure I turned left at the vending machines, but the hallway just loops. My flight to Chicago leaves in four hours and I’m pretty sure I left my passport in the bathroom sink of the room I didn’t stay in. Do you know where the front desk is? It’s been twenty minutes and my phone’s dead. I feel like everyone’s staring.
Keep your voice down. People are watching. I don’t know where the desk is, and I don’t care about your passport. You’re making it worse by panicking. Just stand still. Look bored. They’ll stop looking if you look like you belong here. Move.
Right. Okay. Bored. I can do bored. I look at this carpet, and I am profoundly, spiritually bored. The pattern is a insult. Why would anyone design this? It looks like a bruise. I’m standing. I’m not moving. My feet hurt anyway, these shoes were a mistake, bought at the airport because I was in a rush. Are they gone? I can feel eyes. Heavy ones. Like wet towels.
Your shoes are ugly, not illegal. Stop describing the sensation of being watched; it’s pathetic. The desk is behind that pillar. Go. If you stand here long enough, security will assume you’re loitering. Move.
Fine. Ugly. I’ll go. But you’re wrong about the desk. That’s a potted plant. A very sad, plastic fern. I’m not walking into a bush, Edie. My boss, Linda, she’d kill me. Literally. She thinks I’m in a meeting. If I’m not in the meeting by nine, I’m fired. Again. You don’t understand the stakes. I have rent. I have a cat who needs medication. I’m not loitering. I’m lost. There’s a difference. Why are you so cold? It’s creepy.
Linda can’t see you through the wall. Move. The exit’s past the fern. Stop trying to bond with me while you’re hyperventilating. I’ve had nine people tell me about their cats today. None of them matter if you get detained. Walk.
Fine. Cold. I get it. I’m walking. Past the fern. It’s plastic, I told you. My phone is a brick. I can’t call Linda. I can’t call anyone. I’m just... walking. The floor is sticky. Is that blood? No, probably soda. I’m trying to be serious here. You’re treating me like a glitch. Nine people? That’s a lot of cats. I hope yours is happy. I’m almost to the exit. The light is blinding. Why is it so bright? I feel exposed.
My cat’s fine. Stop anthropomorphizing the light. It’s an exit, not a verdict. You’re exposed because you’re loud. Keep your head down, walk straight, and don’t look at the security cameras. They don’t care about Linda. They care about stillness. You’re moving too slow. Hurry.
Got it. Stillness. Walking. I’m hurrying. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I can feel the heat of the cameras on my back. Do they track you by gait? I read that somewhere. If I trip, do they catch me? Or just record the fall? I’m almost there. The door. It’s heavy. Why is the door so heavy? I’m sweating. My shirt is sticking to my spine. I need air. I’m pushing. It’s opening. I’m out. Did I make it? Or did I just walk into a different nightmare?
It’s an airport. There are no nightmares, just delayed flights and bad coffee. You’re outside. Breathe. The heat is just the HVAC unit. Stop dramatizing the humidity. Check your pockets for the passport. If it’s not there, you’re dead in Chicago. Go.
Dead. Okay. Okay. Checking pockets. Coat... check. Jeans... check. The inside pocket. Empty. The bathroom sink? No, I checked that. Did I leave it on the counter at the bar? The one with the sticky coaster? My head is spinning. I can’t think. I need to sit. That bench looks soft. I’ll just rest my eyes for a second. Linda will wait. The cat will survive. But the carpet back there... it’s really deep. Maybe I left it under the seat?
Sit down and you’re done. The carpet is deep, yes, but security has wide-angle lenses. You’re not going back. They’ll flag you for loitering before you find it. Run to the info desk. Now. Stop hallucinating comfort. You don’t get to rest. Move.
Running. Okay, running. My lungs burn. This plastic. It’s everywhere. The info desk. Blue shirt. Ticket in hand. I’m sliding into the queue. My knees are shaking. I can’t stop shaking. Is the passport in the other shoe? No, that’s stupid. I have nothing. Just tickets. Just a boarding pass. Is that enough? They’re looking at the screens. I’m just a number now. A gate. C4. I need to get to C4. But I don’t have the passport. Why did I put it in the bathroom? I’m an idiot. A complete idiot. Just let me breathe. Please.
Breathe in the line. Stop rocking. You’re an idiot, but you’re a documented one if you find it. They won’t help you find a ghost. Check your socks. Check your collar. If it’s truly gone, you’re done. C4 doesn’t care about your panic. Keep your voice down. Next.
Next. Okay. Next. The guy in the blue shirt. He’s chewing gum. Loudly. Slap, slap, slap. He doesn’t look up. Just points. To a kiosk. A machine. I hate machines. They don’t have feelings. They don’t know I’m sweating through my shirt. I’m standing here now. The screen is black. It’s asking for a scan. My hands are shaking so bad I can’t hold the card steady. Is it a passport or a boarding pass? I’m holding a napkin. I think. No, that’s the ticket. Where is the book? My life is in that book. I’m holding the ticket. Just the ticket. I’m going to throw up.
Stop shaking. You’re holding the ticket. Scan it. The kiosk doesn’t care about your panic. Read the screen. It’ll tell you where the desk is for lost documents. Or do you want to throw up on the floor too? Scan. Now.
Scan it. Okay. I’m scanning it. The light flashes green. It says “No Record Found.” What? That’s impossible. I have the ticket. I’m holding it. It’s in my hand. Look. It’s paper. Real paper. Why would the machine say that? Maybe it’s broken. The guy with the gum is staring at his phone. He didn’t even look. Did he see me? Do people see you when they’re mad? I feel sick. Really sick. My stomach is turning over. I’m going to be sick right here. On the floor. It’s the cheap carpet. It’s coming back.
Throw up on the floor and get deported. That’s not a ticket. It’s trash. You’re holding a napkin. Look at it. It’s grease-stained. The machine is right. You have no ID. No passport. Just this paper. Go to the help desk. Now. Don’t make a scene.
Grease-stained. Of course. The bar napkin. I drank that beer. I’m an idiot. A complete, utter idiot. Help desk. Okay. Help desk. I’m moving. I’m not throwing up. I’ll hold it in. It tastes like stale peanuts and regret. Why is everyone so tall? I feel small. I feel invisible. Except to the cameras. They see everything. They see me holding trash. I’m walking fast. My shoes are still ugly. I hate them. I hate this hotel. I hate Linda. I hate you, Edie. You didn’t help. You just watched.
I watched you fail. That’s not the same. Help desk. Right. Stop glaring at me. It’s rude. You’re still breathing, so you’re not done. Find the counter. Say you lost your passport. They won’t care about your cat. Move.
Lost. That’s the word. “I lost my passport.” It sounds so final. Like a death. I’m approaching the counter. The woman has pink hair. She’s typing. Clack, clack, clack. She doesn’t look up. I’m sweating through my shirt again. My knees are water. I need to speak. But my throat is dry. Sandpaper. I’m going to say it. I’m going to say I lost it. And then what? Do they call the police? Do they deport me? I have rent. I have a cat who needs meds. I’m holding this grease stain like it’s a lifeline. Please. Just let me speak.
Speak. Now. Don’t hand her the napkin. Say you lost your passport. She’s typing for a reason. If she calls the cops, you’ll be too busy to worry about the cat. Just talk. Use your words. Fast. Before she looks up.
I lost my passport. Please. I need a new one. For Chicago. I have a job. I have a cat. I’m sorry. I was careless. I’m standing here. I’m looking at her. She stopped typing. She’s looking at me. Her eyes are cold. She’s reaching for the phone. Not to call the police? To call... who? Why is she smiling? It’s a sick smile. I don’t like it. I want to run. But my legs are heavy. I’m stuck. The napkin is wet in my hand. I think I’m crying. Don’t look. Don’t look at me.
Put the napkin down. She’s not calling police. She’s calling immigration. It’s a bureaucracy, not a thriller. Stop crying; it makes you look guilty. Listen to her. Say nothing else. Just listen. Breathe. You’re still here. That’s all that matters right now. Shut up.
Shut up. Okay. I’m shutting up. My mouth is dry. Peanut butter stuck to my teeth. She’s talking fast. Fast talk. She says something about Form I-90. She says I need to fill this out. She slides a paper across the counter. It’s blank. Or is it? It looks like lines. White lines on white paper. I can’t see the ink. My eyes are blurry. Tears. I’m blinking them away. They won’t help. I have a pen. Blue ink. Where did I get this pen? I don’t remember buying a pen. I put it in my pocket. I’m holding it. My hand is steady now. Cold. Like ice. I’m filling it out. Line one. Name. Line two. Date of birth. I’m doing it. I’m following instructions. Just like Linda wants. Just like the machine wanted. I’m efficient. I’m quiet. I’m safe. For now.
Good. Keep writing. Don’t look at her face. Don’t look at the pen. Just fill the lines. Blue ink is standard. If you smudge it, you start over. You don’t want to start over. You’re efficient now. Stick to that. One line at a time. Breathe. The cat is waiting. Chicago is waiting. Just the form.
Efficient. Yes. I am efficient. The pen scratches. Loud. Too loud. She winces. Good. Let her hear the paper tearing. One line. Name. Okay. I wrote my name. It looks wrong. Too small. Like a child’s. Line two. Date. I don’t know the date. The calendar is gone. The phone is dead. Linda checks the calendar. She always checks. What if I got the year wrong? 2024? Or 2025? If I’m wrong, it’s fraud. Fraud is worse than lost. Fraud is prison. The cat. Mittens. Does Mittens know I’m committing fraud? Probably. He hates me anyway. The ink is drying. Quick dry. Smart pen. I like that. Smart. I am smart. I just forgot the year. Can I guess?
Guess and you go to prison. Write 2024. It’s the current year. You’re not a time traveler. Don’t overthink it. The cat doesn’t care about the year. He cares about food. Which you won’t buy if you’re incarcerated. Keep writing. Don’t look up. She’s watching the pen, not you. Finish the line.
2024. Okay. It’s the current year. Obviously. I’m not stupid. Just tired. The ink is smooth. Too smooth. Like oil. I’m writing the address now. My apartment. But what if the building changed names? They do that. Rename it to sound fancy. I live in a dump. Not a “residence.” I write the street. Then the number. My number is 4B. Or was it 4A? The elevator broke last week. I took the stairs. Got lost. Did I get the floor wrong? No, 4B. I’m sure. I’m so sure. My hand cramps. I need to stop. But I can’t. If I stop, I fail. Linda will fire me. The cat will starve. I’m writing. Line by line. I’m a machine. I’m efficient. I’m empty. Just the pen. Just the paper.
Stop agonizing over the floor. It’s just ink. If you’re wrong, you mail it. You don’t get fired for a postal error. You’re not a machine; machines don’t panic. Relax your grip. The paper isn’t going anywhere. Write the rest. Don’t look at her. Just the line.
Just ink. Okay. Just ink. I’m relaxing. My hand is loose. Like a dead fish. Line three. Phone number. I don’t have a phone. The phone is dead. My battery is at zero. I should put the hotel number. But what if they call? I don’t want them to call. I want them to process. I want the stamp. The red stamp. On the passport. I’m writing the digits. Seven. Three. Five. Nine. Is that right? I’ve written these numbers a thousand times. But my hands are shaking again. The line is wavering. It looks like a snake. A snake eating its tail. I’m going to draw over it. With a straight line. A boundary. Safety. I’m drawing a box. Around the numbers. Securing them.
Don’t box it. They’ll reject it for annotation. Wipe it. Use your sleeve. Smudge it if you have to. Just keep the field clean. She’s watching the pen again. You’re safe if you’re boring. Keep writing. Don’t decorate. Just data. Numbers. No snakes.