Even if that fight is against an entire immigration system designed to keep people like me out.
CHAPTER 11
MAYA
The immigration law books spread across my kitchen table like battle plans. Dex hunches over her laptop, fingers flying across keys with the intensity of someone dismantling systemic oppression one Google search at a time. Her sleeve tattoos peek out from under a worn "Question Authority" hoodie, and I've never been more grateful for her particular brand of righteous fury.
"This is absolute bullshit." She doesn't look up from the screen. "Linguistic professionals have been getting screwed by the system for years. Look at this."
I lean over her shoulder, squinting at dense legal text that might as well be written in ancient Sumerian. "What am I looking at?"
"Precedent. Martinez v. Department of Immigration, 2019. Colombian linguistics professor, similar visa status as your orc boyfriend?—"
"He's not my?—"
"—got deported despite having tenure track offers from three universities." Dex's jaw tightens. "Know what his crime was? Someone complained about his accent being 'difficult to understand' during lectures."
My stomach drops. Ursak's English is flawless, better than most native speakers, but his voice carries that distinctive orcish resonance. Deep, thrumming, impossible to ignore. In the quiet corridors of academia, that could easily be weaponized against him.
"There has to be something we can do." I pace behind her chair, nervous energy radiating off me like heat. "Some loophole, some precedent that works in his favor."
"There is." Dex spins around, eyes bright with the kind of dangerous optimism that usually gets us both arrested. "Community support documentation. If we can prove he's integrated into the neighborhood, contributing to local culture, building meaningful relationships..."
"How do we prove that?"
"Witness statements. Photos. Video testimonials." She grins, the expression sharp as broken glass. "And a little creative community organizing."
An hour later, I'm standing in the building's laundry room with a handful of hastily printed flyers, feeling like the world's most incompetent revolutionary. Dex has transformed the space into a makeshift classroom, complete with a laptop balanced on the folding table and a presentation titled "KNOW YOUR RIGHTS: SUPPORTING IMMIGRANT NEIGHBORS."
Mrs. Albion from 2A arrives first, clutching a basket of delicates and looking deeply suspicious. "What's all this then?"
"Community education," Dex says smoothly, in her best lawyer voice. "We're discussing how to support long-term residents facing immigration challenges."
"Like that nice orc boy upstairs?" Mrs. Albion's expression softens. "He helped me carry groceries last week. Very polite."
My heart does something complicated. Of course Ursak helped with groceries. Of course he was polite. The manprobably holds doors for strangers and returns lost wallets with personal thank-you notes.
More neighbors trickle in. Mr. Rodriguez from 3C, the college students from the basement apartment, even cranky Mr. Peterson who usually communicates exclusively through passive-aggressive notes about recycling bin placement. Word spreads through the building with surprising efficiency.
"The thing about immigration law," Dex begins, warming up to her favorite subject, "is that it's designed to be confusing. Intimidating. But communities have power when they understand their rights."
She launches into a presentation about visa classifications, community support documentation, and the legal precedents that could help Ursak's case. I watch neighbors who barely speak to each other in elevators suddenly engaged in passionate discussions about bureaucratic injustice.
"So what can we actuallydo?" asks Sarah from 3B.
"Document everything," Dex says. "Write statements about positive interactions. Take photos at community events. Show that immigrant residents aren't just existing here. They're contributing, building relationships, making the neighborhood better."
"We could do something right now," Mrs. Albion suggests. "A group photo? Show unity?"
The idea evolves rapidly. Someone suggests making signs. Another neighbor produces markers from their laundry supplies. Within minutes, we've got a spontaneous demonstration brewing in the basement laundry room, complete with handmade placards reading "URSAK BELONGS HERE" and "IMMIGRATION JUSTICE NOW."
"Let's make some noise," Dex declares, pulling out her phone to record. "Community support should be loud and proud."
What starts as a few people talking becomes a full-throated chant. "What do we want? Justice! When do we want it? Now!" The words echo off concrete walls, gaining momentum as more voices join in.
I'm holding a sign that reads "NEIGHBORS SUPPORT NEIGHBORS" and feeling actually hopeful for the first time in days when the laundry room door bursts open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
Ursak stands in the doorway, massive frame filling the entrance, eyes wide with what looks like genuine alarm. His hair is disheveled, notebook clutched in one hand like he was mid-study session when the chanting reached his apartment.
