The customs inspector peers into the Jeep. I can see him taking it all in— Mick, who has removed his sunglasses, in the driver’s seat; me sitting next to him, my legs neatly crossed; the plastic water bottles at my feet; the pile of scripts in the backseat. “We’re together,” I answer. “We’re friends,” Mick says over me. “Passports, please.” The inspector flips through Mick’s passport first, pausing to look at some of the stamps inside. Mick has traveled to so many places. “So you’re Australian?” “Yes, sir.” Though the inspector is younger than Mick, Mick is being extremely polite. “Ever seen a kangaroo?” the inspector asks. “Lots of times,” Mick says. The inspector opens my passport. “Where are you two heading today?” “To Plattsburgh,” I answer. “We’re going to meet up with my fa—” Mick takes over. “With her father. He lives in Bangkok, but he’s in the US on business. We have this letter from him.” Mick reaches between the two seats for the letter my father has faxed.
