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even a strand of gray. Too young for this kind of work, Austin thinks, but then realizes, hopes, that it may work in his favor. The boy might be eager to help, be accommodating. How simple it could be. One small decree. A single stamp and a life could change, a train could pull out of the station and a border could be broken.
    â€œDocuments,” the clerk says.
    â€œGood afternoon,” says Austin.
    â€œDocuments.”
    â€œEverything is in order,” Austin says, patting his hand on the envelope. He passes the documents beneath the glass. His heart is racing. He wonders if the actualization of what is longed for can ever match what it is to be just within reach.
    â€œQuite a lot of papers here.”
    â€œThe letters there are written on my behalf. And these here are my inventions. You’ll see that I have communicated with the U.S. Patent Commissioner. That is my oath of a single inventor.”
    â€œNot necessary. Country of origin, please,” the clerk says, arranging the documents into two separate piles. The muffled patter of a typewriter fills the silence.
    â€œCountry of origin, please.”
    â€œRussia,” says Austin, pressing his shoulders back, feeling his neck crack.
    â€œThe Soviet Union?”
    â€œRussia.”
    â€œYou are a citizen of what country?”
    â€œYou see—”
    â€œYou are a citizen of what country, Mr. Voronkov?”
    â€œMy wife . . . she is American.”
    â€œWhat is
your
country of citizenship?”
    â€œNo country . . . But my wife . . . she is American.”
    The clerk places the documents back into the envelope.
    â€œMy children are Americans—” The clerk rises, tells Austin to wait, and then walks past the long line of clerks seated at the same standard-regulation, blue-gray desks, reaching the end of the room and passing through a windowless metal door the color of slate.
    â€œShit.” Austin stamps his foot, sighs. He keeps his eyes on his hands. He’s come this far, might as well see it through: Keep calm, he thinks.
    The clerk returns, carrying a manila file folder. He is half smiling, half frowning. It is a small effort at offering a kind of sympathy. Smug, Austin thinks. But what did this youngster know? This young chap who gets to come and sit here at such an organized desk, saying “yes” or “no.” Clear-cut. Simple.
    â€œSo?” Austin says. The clerk sits down. He begins to write on a white slip of paper covered with blue lettering.
    â€œIs it okay?”
    Silence.
    â€œI’m afraid we aren’t permitted to authorize any visa for you,” the clerk says, tapping the file with the tip of his pen. “D.C. handles your kinds of cases—”
    â€œYou see. I can explain about the file,” Austin says. His tongue is dry. A pulsing in his neck persistent.
    â€œYes, you can, sir. But it doesn’t help. We’re not permitted to handle your case. It’s D.C.”
    â€œI come here every year and I bring you people the same papers that you require. And then I’m told the same thing. D.C. It’s up to D.C. Waiting on D.C. and then I’m told to return.”
    â€œWe can’t reverse a deportation charge. That’s up to”—the clerk pauses—“Washington. I can give you the D.C. office to write to.”
    â€œI’ve written to that office. I hear nothing.”
    â€œIt’s the Labor Department,” says the clerk, exchanging his pen for a stamp.
    â€œI wrote to them. My wife has written to them. Please.”
    Silence. The sound of another typewriter. The clerk bows his head. He sets down the stamp, brushes a bit of hair out of his eyes. Austin sees the ink stains on the edge of his palm, his fingertips. He is not so neat and tidy, is he. Their eyes meet. Hazel—it is the first prolonged eye contact the two have made throughout the exchange.
    â€œMr. Voronkov, you are an