
Fluorescent lights illuminate the nervous crowd seated below them; the constant beep, beep, beep, from the computers is anything but soothing. Everyone stiffly keeps turned to the front of the room.
They murmur in different languages between themselves: Russian, Spanish, different Asian dialects. All of them clutch large stacks of papers, over-prepared, just in case. The immigration office is not a place you want things to go wrong.
“27,” a curly brown-haired woman from the front desk screams, her bark strangely feminine. An older woman stands up; a younger lady helps her walk to the front. No one smiles, few people whisper among themselves the rest just listen.
“28.” Everyone checks their number. Another gets up to disappear to the front of the room.
A TV softly plays against the wall; a wrinkled piece of paper stuck to it reads “DO NOT TOUCH.” Read more

