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answered coolly, “I’m a teaching assistant in primatology at the University of Toronto.”
    â€œI’m the draft dodger,” she joked, feeling vomit rise in her throat with the forced laughter.
    The guard smiled and nodded to the door with a grey mesh window.
    â€œDon’t have nothing to do with me anyway. He’ll see you in a minute.” He returned to their forms to make sure they had left no white spaces.
    â€œWhat about the Manual? ” she whispered.
    Guy looked confused. Or was it annoyed? Maybe he was signaling her to shut up. But the question was important in case the van were searched. She leaned over and whispered, “Did you put it in the chemistry book?”
    â€œYou were the one who had it last,” he said between his teeth and then turned back to a travel brochure. “Did you know that Nova Scotia is the only region outside Scotland to have a registered tartan?”
    Her stomach turned. She rummaged for a Tums in her purse. There, bunched with the birth certificates and marriage license, was the Manual. Did they search purses?
    â€œMr. and Mrs. Thompson?”
    They followed another guard into a small, spare room. Guy didn’t have to repeat so much this time. Maybe the acoustics were better. Maybe he was learning Canadian. The officer asked them questions which they had already answered on the application.
    â€œAnd you, Mrs. Thompson, what do you do?”
    She paused for a moment, as if listening for her mother-in-law (Will the real Mrs. Thompson please speak up?) and then she answered, “I’m a teacher.” The words came too easily. She dreaded hearing them. It had taken her a year to feel able to say “writer,” when people inquired. “Teacher” was just what she wasn’t going to be her whole life. However, they needed teachers in Canada, in places like Baffin Island. She would do anything to get them in.
    He checked their diplomas, licenses and bank books. Pedigrees seemed to be in order. That was all for now. No questions about why they wanted to immigrate. No speeches about the Great National Park or the three party system or the ethnic mosaic. He had no more questions.
    â€œIf you’ll wait here, I’ll be right back with an answer for you.”
    When he closed the door, she looked at Guy for the first time since they entered the room.
    â€œYour purse,” he said.
    Her purse lay open on her lap to the Manual For Draft Age Immigrants To Canada.
    He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said.
    She didn’t have the strength to squeeze back. She just wanted to throw up. Of course good immigrants don’t throw up. The guard might think she had typhoid or something. She stared at the grey mesh window.
    â€œThat’s it, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.”
    The immigration officer was handing something to Guy.
    â€œThat’s it,” Guy said, louder, to her.
    The man had his hand on Guy’s shoulder, “Bloody awful war.”
    Toronto. Two hundred miles. The road signs had crowns on them. “Welcome to Canada. Bienvenue au Canada.” She turned on CBC to distract them from Windsor. “War Measures Act.…”
    The city seemed to mirror Detroit through foul Lake Michigan. And the water looked just as dead from this side.
    â€œâ€¦ War Measures Act. Prime Minister Trudeau said in a press conference in Ottawa this afternoon that the decree of martial law will be in effect all over the country. Primary surveillance will take place in Quebec. In Montreal so far, thirteen people suspected of knowing about the Pierre La Porte kidnapping have been taken to jail. The CBC has received no official communiques from the FLQ. Martial law is.…”
    â€œFind some music, will you?” said Guy.
    â€œIn French?” she asked.
    The Common
Stinkweed
    Her father offered a Harris tweed suit and a silk blouse if she would go out and get a real job. “Why, that would cost