The guard helps the shaking woman up. She made no sound since that shriek. My mother’s breed of women cry silently. The handbag and folder are returned. She holds them to her chest the way a child hugs a stuffed animal.

“Sitna, what time is your appointment?”

“Eight o’clock,” her small voice says.

“Do you have a printed confirmation?”

She nods and presents it. My heart chills. I don’t.

“And your passport again, sitna, law samahti,” the guard says politely, almost kindly to the lady. This man whose boot, minutes ago, almost crushed a boy’s face. He runs his finger once, twice, three times down a three-page list. Meanwhile, the other guard looks over her shoulder at me.

“Oustaz, what time is your appointment?”

My eyes dash from boot to guns, to list, to gate. I lose my voice.

“Oustaz, your name and appointment confirmation, law samaht!”

“I… don’t have one.”

He raises an eyebrow. The two men exchange a bad, bad look.

“I mean, I already have a visa. I… I just need to ask a question. It’s urgent. You see, it’s about the travel ba—”

“Sitna,” the first guard says, to the woman now, returning her documents, “your appointment was yesterday, not today. Go home and make another,” as polite as he had been when he helped her up.

“But I was sure I—”

“I’m sorry, sitna. The embassy does not accept walk-ins.”

“But I waited months for this appointment! Who knows when they’ll give me another! My daughter is getting married, and we live so far from Amman… Please.”

“I’m sorry, sitna,” the guard says again and reaches over her shoulder to the next person. She bursts into tears. One yelp, then, a second later, she begins to gather her documents—passport, confirmation paper—on mute, shoulders shaking, sliding each item carefully back into the folder. She leaves. No one reacts, looking straight ahead at the land of their dreams.

“Oustaz, without an appointment…”