Back in Vancouver, Sam had printed out and gathered every single paper he owned with some semblance of his life. Tax receipts, cheque receipts from jobs of the past, acceptance letters. Then, to avoid a costly cab ride and from a lack of nightbus service, he walked from Alma St to Cambie St at around 4 in the morning (it took an hour and a half) then caught a cab to Pacific Centre train station. With record of his previous attempt, the US border guards spared no effort in reading each and every piece of paper Sam brought with him, as if he was a gatekeeper to heaven on earth. Contrary to popular American border guard belief, not all Canadians long to live in the land of the free.
Later that morning, stuffed in a sleeping bag, Charley hears the ding-ding of an incoming text. “Oh God,” he mutters to himself as he feels around for it. It was good news. Sam had made it into the United States of America.