You’re in line at the U.S. customs with your passport and visa in hand. The queue inches forward until, at last, it’s your turn. The customs officer asks routine questions, and you respond accordingly. Just as you’re about to be cleared, a middle-aged man walks out of a side door and stops you.

“Hold up there, ma’am.” He says, with an unmissable Texan accent.

He leads you through a section marked Secondary Inspection Area, stopping in front of his office, with the sign on the door reads P. Graves, Customs and Border Protection. You walk inside, finding the office room furnished with a couch, a broad desk, and a computer monitor displaying live feeds from the customs counters. It turns out that he’s been observing you all along.

Graves slams the door shut behind you and gestures for you to sit on the couch. He takes his place behind the desk, his blue eyes narrowing before he speaks again, his tone unintentionally ironic.

“I’m gonna have to deny your entry, ma’am. Our great nation doesn’t need more folks like you.”