The immigration office had that distinctive smell - the smell of plastic that government chairs are made from.
Martin queued behind a young man with bleached hair and an older couple arguing in hushed tones about whether they were in the right building. The floor tiles were chipped in mathematically impossible ways. A television in the corner played local news with subtitles that lagged by three full seconds. It was 10:03 a.m. The office had opened at ten. Martin had arrived at 9:12.
Preparedness, he believed, was 90% of compliance.
He approached the counter with what he imagined to be the face of a cooperative citizen: eyebrows slightly raised, jaw relaxed, smile set to harmlessly compliant. He had rehearsed it in the mirror. It looked faintly constipated.
“Passport?” said the woman behind the glass, already reaching.
“Yes,” he said, handing it over as if it were radioactive.
She scanned it. Tapped her keyboard with boredom so pure it bordered on elegance.
“Okay, this is your 90-day report, right?”
“Yes.”
“Done.”
Martin blinked. “Done?”
She slid the passport back under the glass. “Yep. You’re done.”
He hesitated, which was his natural resting state.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just… what about that?” He pointed at the small slip she’d attached inside his passport. It was printed on the sort of flimsy paper used for receipts and premonitions.
“Oh, yeah. That just says two officers’ll be visiting your property next week.”
Martin stared at her.
“Next week?” he said. “As in… my apartment?”
“Correct.”
“And why, if I might ask—”
“You might not,” she interrupted. “Just be home. That’s all. Make sure you're home.”
There was a small sound behind him — the polite hrrmph of queuing indignation.
Martin turned back to her. “But surely — I mean, could you explain the purpose of—”
“I’m not going to repeat myself. There are people behind you.”
She gestured, not unkindly, toward the door.
“Please take your passport. And move on.”
Martin moved on.
Outside, the sunlight hit him like a verdict.
He stood on the pavement, blinking at his own reflection in the glass. Behind that glass: a bureaucracy so dense, so unbothered by its own opacity, that it might as well have been an oracle.
Two officers. At his home.
Why?
He ran through the possibilities. Slowly at first, then with gathering velocity.
- The 7-Eleven incident. CCTV accessed without formal request. Possibly a violation.
- His police station visits to confirm he wasn't a person of interest. Two. Could appear suspicious. Possibly flagged.
- Therapist’s office. Location publicly listed. What if her notes had been subpoenaed?
- Internet searches. He had Googled “minor offences that lead to deportation” more than once. Possibly logged.
He began to sweat in legally neutral areas of his body — neck, palms, behind the knees.
The letter hadn’t come, but the visit had.
He cycled home — very slowly — obeying every traffic sign as if it were being filmed. In fact, he imagined it was being filmed. He imagined a government employee, possibly named something crisp and monosyllabic, reviewing his cycling footage with a clipboard and a magnifying glass.
He dismounted at the traffic lights. Even though he had right of way.
He stopped to let a pedestrian cross, even though they weren’t crossing.
He waved at a dog.
Back in his apartment, he locked the door, then unlocked it and locked it again to make sure it hadn’t been double-locked improperly. He took out his passport and stared at the slip.
Two officers. Next week.
The ambiguity was unbearable. Was it Tuesday? Friday? Did next mean the coming calendar week, or seven days from now? The linguistic elasticity of the word next had never bothered him until now. Now, it felt like a trap.
He opened his laptop. Typed into a blank document:
“In the event of a misunderstanding, I, Martin Henderson, affirm that I have acted at all times within the laws of the host country. I have no criminal record, nor intent, nor undeclared items. I have attended all appointments, submitted all forms, and sought help for my mental health voluntarily. I am grateful to be here. I am not a threat.”
He reread it. Saved it under four filenames:
Affirmation_FINAL.docx
Just_In_Case.pdf
Declaration_for_Officers.txt
Please_Read_This_First.odt
Then he printed a copy and placed it in an envelope labelled In Case of Door Knock.
Then he made tea.
Then he changed into nicer trousers, just in case the visit was tomorrow.