THE AGENT WAS A YOUNG MAN WITH WHITE-BLOND HAIR closely shorn around his ears. He wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. A patch on its crown read in gold script:
US CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION
He chewed gum behind thin lips, the muscles in his temples bulging, as he examined the identification of the travelers who passed through the lane alongside his kiosk.
The climber stepped forward and handed over his passport.
Jonah heard the agent’s question: “Are you an American citizen?”
“Yes, sir,” the climber replied.
The agent flipped through the pages of the climber’s passport, handed it back, and waved him through. “Welcome back to the United States,” he said.
The climber turned and nodded a farewell to Jonah.
The border agent held his hand out and Jonah rummaged in his pack for his passport. Finally he located it and placed it in the agent’s hand. The man had blue eyes deep within the shadow of the curved bill of his hat.
“Are you an American citizen?”
“Yes.”
The agent turned the passport photo toward Jonah. “How old are you in this photo?”
“Uh. I don’t know.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I don’t remember exactly. It’s not expired yet, I checked.”
“Is there anything in your backpack you wouldn’t want me to find, Mr. McBee?”
Jonah stuttered. “What? No.”
The agent pursed his lips. Sweat trickled down Jonah’s sides. The agent’s blue eyes swiveled. Jonah was aware of the wrinkled, dirty clothing he wore, the sleepless circles beneath his own eyes. He had a vague sense of guilt, as though he had a secret.
“Where do you live, Mr. McBee?”
“New Orleans.”
“Did you leave your automobile in Mexico?”
“No—no, I walked across.”
“What was your business in Nuevo Laredo?”
“I passed through on my way to Las Monarcas. To visit a friend.”
“In Coahuila state?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you return your FM-T at customs in Mexico?”
“My what?”
“Your tourist visa.”
“I didn’t know I needed one . . .”
The agent frowned. He set the passport down and rested his fingers on the keyboard of his computer. “What is your friend’s name? The one you were visiting.”
“Luz Hidalgo,” Jonah said.
Keys clacked. The agent looked from the screen to Jonah to the line waiting.
“Mr. McBee, did Miss Hidalgo accompany you to the border?”
“What?”
“Is she with you?”
“No.”
“She remained in Las Monarcas while you returned to the border?”
“Well, no, but she didn’t come with me.”
“Okay, Mr. McBee.” The agent pointed toward the wall. “I need you to step over here and wait a moment.”
“What?” Jonah’s hands went cold. “Why? What did I do?”
“Please do as you are asked, sir.”
“Come on, man. I’m just trying to get home.”
The agent came around his kiosk and held his hand toward the wall. “Step aside and wait here, Mr. McBee. Please remove your backpack, as well.”
Jonah turned and glanced at the travelers waiting in line behind him. White and Latino faces alike, they averted their eyes, as if connecting with him might tempt fate.