"So nobody would take it," he said. "Okay. Sure. That's a new one."
He walked Lorenz to the cruiser by the elbow and opened the rear door and put a hand on top of his head and guided him down into the seat, the way they did on television, and Lorenz sat sideways on the hard molded plastic of the back seat with his feet still out on the asphalt and his cuffed hands pressed behind him into the small of his back. The seat smelled of disinfectant and, underneath the disinfectant, of something sour that had been there longer. A plexiglass partition with a sliding window separated him from the front. On the dashboard beyond it a laptop glowed on its swivel mount, and there was a coffee cup in the console from a gas station, and a child's drawing of a horse tucked behind the sun visor, purple crayon, the legs all different lengths.
Brodersen stood in the open door and looked down at him. He had his notebook out.
"Spell your last name."
Lorenz spelled it, twice.
"Date of birth."
"March fourteen, 1984."
"You got ID on you?"
"In my wallet. Back left pocket."
Brodersen leaned in and got it himself, not gently, and opened it under the dome light and took out the Indiana driver's license and looked from the photo to Lorenz's face and back. He took out the green card too, and looked at it longer. Lorenz watched him look at it. He knew that look. He had seen it on the faces of customs officers in eleven countries, the look of a man reading a document and believing it less the longer he read.
"Permanent resident," Brodersen said.