In the immigration line, he pretended to understand English, nodding when the woman directed him to the longer line filled with anxious passengers. Don Chan looked over to the other line, for U.S. citizens, and sucked his teeth over the way the passengers with blue passports rushed through; a little girl, sunburned, head full of tiny braids, waved at him.

Don Chan walked up to the immigration desk.

—What were you doing in the Dominican Republic? the officer asked with a question mark on his brow line. He repeated himself in broken Spanish. His cheeks were pink, like the tops of his ears.

—I was born there.

The officer eyed him.

For the first time in a long time, Don Chan caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He never cared to look into a mirror back home, but from the quick look he caught of himself in the officer‘s eyes, Don Chan realized that his Chinese face was confusing the officer holding the Dominican passport.

—I can tell you a story, Don Chan said.

—Excuse me?

—My wife found me on the beach when she was four years old. And as if I was some kind of alien, she poked at my hair and said…—Who are you? And I said, —Chan Lee, yo soy Chan Lee. I couldn‘t remember anything but my name. It was 1916. I was six years old, washed up on the shores of Juan Dolio. If my wife were alive, she could prove it to you.

The officer behind the desk took Don Chan‘s passport and left him waiting. After he went through the trouble of getting his papers straight, Don Chan didn‘t understand why all the inquiry. He searched the line, noticing the worried, anxious, wound-up faces of the other passengers who were about to embark on a new life. It saddened him to think that after living almost his entire life on that small island, there was no one in that room who could explain to the officer who he was. The officer returned. He carefully checked the photograph and pecked at the computer. Don Chan wanted nothing more than to return home where no one scrutinized him.

—Are you here for business or pleasure?

—I‘m here to see my son.

—Welcome to the United States, the officer said as he waved over the next person in line.

Don Chan‘s suitcases were already waiting for him at the baggage claim. To his surprise, the customs officer allowed him to exit the airport without asking for a tip for his hospitality. He hesitantly walked out of the airport into a cold that exposed a decaying sky and made his balls shrink. He didn‘t see Santo anywhere. He waited on the curb by the taxi stand.

—Taxi, you need a taxi. Men hovered around him showing him their business cards. —Thirty dollar. Forty dollar. Taxi. Taxi.

His bare ankles found no refuge. He pretended the cold didn‘t bother him and that he had been in an airport many times, that the snow piled by the curb was not a novelty. He stood against a wall for protection and felt himself contract into something small and hard. He held his bag near his legs, regretting the trip to New York City, wondering why no one was at the airport to pick him up. Crossing guards whistled so that cars could hurry along. Buses yielding, airplanes landing and taking off. Luggage crashing against the ground. Everything was so loud, he didn‘t hear Esperanza.