“Name?” the man asked. In front of him was a neat stack of blanks, a box to file them in, and two rows of fountain pens. He was near forty years old, his face bronzed from the spring harvest. Everybody was volunteering to contribute to the war effort.

“Amarjeet Singh Gill.”

“Whoa, son,” the man said. “You’re gonna spell that for me nice and slow.” Amarjeet did so, and the man noted the letters on a blank. He peered at them through his thick glasses. “That ain’t so bad, when you look at it on paper. Date of birth?”

“April first, 1896.”

“Birthplace?”

“Ludhiana District, Punjab, India,” Amarjeet said, spelling that too.

Now the man took out another card from his file, placed it beside him, and read carefully. “Of what country are you a citizen or subject?” he said, as if seeing the words for the first time.

“India,” said Amarjeet.

“Great Britain.” The man peered at him.

“I mean it to be India,” insisted Amarjeet.

“Amarjeet—” Ram said.

“I’ll mark both,” the man said, writing carefully. He did not seem to notice Amarjeet’s irritation.

“By whom are you employed?”

“I work on my uncle’s farm,” Amarjeet said, then, after a pause, “What are you marking now?”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“Okay. Another hard question here. What race do you boys call yourselves?”

“Caucasian,” said Amarjeet.

“Oriental,” said Ram.

“I’ll mark both,” said the man.

“We are not both,” said Amarjeet. Suddenly he felt an arm on his shoulder, a man’s face hovering beside his.

“How’s it going here, Howard?” the sheriff said in a friendly drawl. “Good to see foreigners register—even when they don’t have to fight—why, we want them to know how much we Americans appreciate that.” His voice was friendly, but Amarjeet could see the message being conveyed to the clerk.

“No sir, sheriff. Everybody’s getting along.”

“Exactly what President Wilson’s askin’ of us.”

“Don’t I know it!” The clerk looked at Amarjeet again. “I’ll put Hindu next to Oriental, so the men in Washington know what to do.” He nodded at them. “Those men in Washington know everything.”

Amarjeet and Ram exchanged a glance. In the next line, Nick Amsler had finished and stepped away.

“Oh. I forgot one up here,” the man said, peering through his reading glasses. “These blanks are hard to read. Alien status?”

“Yes,” answered Amarjeet.

The man marked it, then he read more off a booklet lying near him, then turned back to the blank: “But have you men”—he cleared his throat—“declared your intention to become a citizen?”

“No,” Ram said.

Amarjeet paused. “Does it make a difference?”

The man shrugged. “I think so.”

“No,” Amarjeet said, finally.

“That’s it,” the man said, turning the card toward Amarjeet. “Make your mark or sign your name—right here.”