It was extraordinary. I had never experienced anything like this; no one had. While many people trapped in this mess were furious, at least some others realized they were caught in the middle of something very special and were enjoying it. Several people began honking in a rhythm, the traffic jam version of synchronized clapping. I banged on our horn. I couldn’t help it.

The noise level rose as others joined in, either for the fun of it or because they were majorly pissed. Laura shouted to me, “You ever hear anything like this?”

“What?” We laughed in unison. “This is crazy,” I shouted.

We passed a convertible with its top down and two chairs balanced on the rear seat; a boy and a girl somewhere in their mid-teens were holding hands, big smiles on their faces. We stopped at a second checkpoint. A female trooper looked at me as I handed her Corbin’s documents. She glanced at it as she looked around me at Laura. She stared at Laura, then bit her bottom lip as if perplexed. Then she began nodding in recognition; pointing Corbin’s documents at Laura, she said, “I know you. You’re that whole-deal girl. Wow.”

Laura smiled back. “Everybody else is just talk,” she agreed.

Without looking at me the officer handed me back the documents. “Nice meeting you,” she said, still smiling.

As Marty Shaw told me, his people had decided to flood all four crossing points with wheelchairs. It was the only plan they could come up with that might have an impact. Their objective was to overwhelm the system; to confuse, delay, and frustrate. Rather than allowing law enforcement to search for the needle in the haystack, they were building a haystack out of needles.

They had requested assistance from every organization for the disabled in Ontario. To help a political fugitive attempting to escape from the United States, they explained, they wanted as many wheelchair-bound people as possible to cross one of the bridges into America, then return through a different checkpoint. It wasn’t much of a plan, he admitted, but given the complete lack of information as to where and when I would try to cross the border, it was their only shot. There was nothing the authorities could do to prevent it.

And there we were, smack-dab in the beautiful middle of it. We continued moving steadily toward the next checkpoint. Every vehicle was being stopped, many of them were being searched, papers were being examined. I put on the baseball cap and glasses. Laura turned up the radio. We were two cars away. Then one. An immigration officer with a somewhat grim look on her face leaned into the car and took a quick look around. “Hi,” she said, somewhat distractedly, “May I have your passports, please?” It appeared she had already dismissed us in her mind.

I was watching the car in front of us. Just stay there, I thought, please, stay there.

Laura handed me her passport. After Wrightman had given law enforcement the power to stop anyone at any time to examine their identification, people had begun carrying their passports, residence documents, or national ID cards with them at all times. I put Laura’s blue passport on top of Corbin’s ID wallet and handed them both to the officer. Then I made a point of leaning over and turning down the radio. Look at me! No disability here!