The man with the gun looks in my direction and I want to melt; puddle inconspicuously on the floor. But there is nowhere to hide so instead, I pray. Fingers squeezing together, one intertwined with the next, a silent wordless prayer, a supplication. Please, please. We are all seated in a row, one next to the other and the man in charge looks at us, lined up like those little yellow ducks in the shooting gallery. I lower my head thinking that if I do not see him then he cannot see me.

The man next to me shifts. Slowly, so as not to alarm the man, he places a protective arm around his young son. When we first sat down, I took no notice of my neighbors but now I am intensely interested in them. Head down, seemingly focused on my supplicant’s hands, I glance sideways, taking in the boy. He can’t be more than five or six but he seems more curious than frightened. They say children comprehend the finality of death by the time they are four. I question this because I am seventy-four and still do not comprehend the finality of death.

The man in charge moves and there is a collective insufflation. Not the exocistic breath that casts out evil but an inhalation sucking it in. Slowly, deliberately, he marches towards us. Every step reverberates along the wooden floor. His shoes squeak. He is the teacher during exams, walking up and down the rows, distracting us with his presence. How can I think with him standing over me. But the man with the gun is not standing over me. He is standing over the girl at the other end. As he brazenly ogles her, his fingers run along his rifle, his hand moves from the pistol grip to caress the trigger, gently, soothingly. She is a rabbit, eyes wide, watching that finger as it moves up, then down. The snake mesmerising its prey.

I can feel the man next to me stiffen. He is a man of action. He wants to end this but he is hampered by the boy he hugs closer to his body. His fingers fidget and I am afraid, not for myself but for the boy. I can read his mind. He is thinking, we out number the man. If we all rush at once, some may die but others will live. But that is exactly what holds us in place and the man with all the power knows this.

A phone buzzes and we jump. Alert, activated the man forgets the girl,for now, he has new prey to stalk. He marches up and down the line but there is no second buzz.  We long to reach into our pockets or backpacks to turn off our phones but we are immobilised. Phones remain where they are like hand grenades with their pins pulled.

A door opens and a dozen sets of eyes move in unison. A no nonsense woman stands, clipboard in hand.  This is the moment of reckoning.  Before the whole climate refugee crisis erupted, we moved freely from coastal areas to inland retreats. That was before moving inland meant not moving back out again. As urban streets filled with the newly created homeless, goodwill dried up like mud puddles on a hot day. Now, dried wastelands stripped of their precious reserves of water, are home to the transient and the destitute. Burned out bushland sprouts trailer homes and tent cities,  replacing once thriving rural communities. I remember the time before and grip my backpack tightly between my legs. My papers of transit are my ticket to freedom.

An elderly man in a weathered suit that must have been expensive in its day, stands and takes a step.

“Remain seated until your name is called.” There is a power shift. The woman with the clipboard holds the real power. The man with the gun is just the enforcer.

“But—”

The enforcer shifts the gun, placing the barrel against the old man’s head and we listen for the sound of the safety. Fading suit opens his mouth. Click. Thinks better of it and steps back. End of discussion. He is back in line with the rest of us.

“Benedict Andrews,” Ms Clipboard says the name, enunciating it clearly, then looks around. I wonder if the name has been read as first name, last name or in the reverse. The young man at the end of the line raises his hand. “Stand here.” She points to a line on the floor. Line of demarcation.

He stands but hesitates. Looking down at the girl next to him, who looks up expectantly, he says, “ What about my wife?”

The woman looks from the boy to the girl, “Does she have papers?”

“No, but we are married.”

“If she has papers, she can join you, otherwise she stays.”

I can feel her silently begging him not to desert her. He turns away, picks up his bag and walks towards the woman with the clipboard. She is not surprised, and so she continues, Janet Dawes. I hear my name but it takes me a moment to react. I look around to see if there is another Janet in the room but there are no other imposters, so I too stand, taking my backpack. Several more names are called and with each pronouncement, the balance in the room shifts. I remember picking teams in school. Those still seated in the chairs are hoping to hear their names called, even if it means they are not really wanted. The last name to be called is Victor Ng, the man with the boy.

He puts a child sized backpack on the boy’s shoulders then lifts his own. The child slides his hand into the man’s.

“Do you have proof of paternity?”

“I have his birth certificate and our DNA results.”

That seems to satisfy the woman’s requirements and she slips the clipboard under her arm. We follow her like ducklings, lined up single file, through the door. I glance briefly over my shoulder at the girl and see tears. Does she cry because he has chosen to flee or because she cannot?

The first hurdle has been cleared. Ahead is the long corridor to a new life. Behind us, the door shuts with a thud. We follow a green line. We shuffle into position. Six supplicants. The man and his son count as one. Six closed doors. The woman hands a flyer to each adult, then presses a green button and the doors open. I read the words on the flyer. It is a list of rules and regulations but I can feel her impatience so I move into the office. The room is small and windowless with a door closing behind me and another closed in front of me. A serious young man sits on one side of a metal desk and I sit in the straight backed chair on the other side. He is typing on his keyboard as he says, “Papers.” I pull the backpack onto my lap, unzip it and reaching into an inside pocket, remove a plastic pouch, which I set on the desk between us.

“Just the papers,” he says and returns to his computer.

I retrieve the pouch and extract the papers, laying them side by side; vaccination certificate, health certificate, birth certificate, residency certificate, and finally my transit certificate. He picks up each document, places it on a scanner and waits as the light flashes from one side to the next and back again. It is a tedious process and I think how mind numbing his job must be. Documents scanned, he tells me my rights. I realise he is reading me the information provided on the flyer. Finished with his monotone monologue he finally looks at me, “Any questions?”

I shake my head and he points at the closed door. Not the one I entered, but the other one. I wish I had a question to ask because I feel like saying something but there really is nothing to say. I am being moved on.

I push on the door and it opens onto a hall with great large windows. Somewhere on the other side of those windows, my son waits.