Her face was a shuttered barn. No light gleamed through the windows, no cattle lowed within. Was she sad? Angry? Shattered into pieces? He couldn’t tell.
If only she would talk, cry, he might put a hand on her arm and say, “I know, I know. This is terrible”; bridge the gulf of language, culture, experience.
A sudden anger flared and he took up the red stamp, printing Denied, on her paperwork.
“Next,” he called.