ESOL

He draws a single clean line through "Native" next to English and writes "ESOL" in block letters.

The shift is immediate and disorienting.

Brad sets the red pen down for a moment and studies you across the desk. Your tongue feels thick, your thoughts a little slower than they were five minutes ago. You want to explain that the language thing was just a technicality, that you have spoken English fluently since elementary school, that you have never once struggled in a job interview or classroom in the United States. But the words do not come as easily as they used to.

Instead you manage, "I... I speak good English. Always have. This just... small mistake."

Brad shrugs. "The resume says what it says. We go by what's written. Let's move on."

He flips back to the personal information section near the top.

"Now, work authorization. You listed yourself as a U.S. Citizen."

"Yes," you say carefully, trying to keep your sentences simple so nothing else slips.

"Congratulations. That's impressive. I didn't realize someone could get citizenship so quickly after coming here as a high-school student."

Your stomach twists. You open your mouth to correct him before he gets the wrong idea.

"Actually... I not citizen yet. Ceremony in two months. But I have green card. Permanent Resident. I can work no problem."

Brad's eyebrows rise. His expression shifts from neutral to something harder.

"So you put 'U.S. Citizen' when you're not one."

"I... I thought Permanent Resident almost same. I legal to work forever. I just-"

He is already shaking his head. "We don't do 'almost' here, Hailey. You either are or you aren't. Claiming citizenship when you don't have it is a lie. Plain and simple."

Before you can get another word out, he picks up the red pen again and draws a firm line through "U.S. Citizen." He pauses for a second, pen hovering over the empty space where your status used to be, then begins to write something new in block letters.

Reality holds its breath.

You feel the first faint ripple of change brushing against the edges of your mind, memories of long-term stability, of building a future here without fear of expiration dates, starting to shimmer like heat off pavement. Whatever he is about to write will decide how much of that future you get to keep... or how little.

Your heart pounds as you watch the red ink form the first letter.

Brad finishes the entry, caps the pen, and looks up at you with calm expectation.

The world is about to shift again.