Hamid clutched his suitcase, which was somehow both too heavy to carry and too light to contain anything important, as he stared at the chaos unfolding in Terminal 4. The flight attendant at the gate was arguing with a man in a three-piece suit who looked like he’d missed his yoga class and taken it personally, while a TSA agent shouted, “No exceptions!” over the wail of a distant baby.

“Next!” barked the agent at the podium, her expression suggesting she had seen enough nonsense for three lifetimes.

Hamid shuffled forward, his sweaty hands slipping off the handle of his passport. “Uh, hello,” he began nervously, adjusting his too-large jacket that still smelled faintly of mothballs.

“Reason for travel?” the agent asked, snapping her gum.

“Refugee status. I have—”

“Yeah, about that.” She held up a hand, then jabbed her finger toward the giant screen above her. The words “REFUGEE TRAVEL PAUSE: EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY” flashed in bold, ominous letters, accompanied by a smaller scrolling text: Exceptions may apply if you can run faster than bureaucracy.

“Pause?” Hamid echoed, his eyebrows shooting up. “What does that mean? Like… a short pause?”

“More like a Netflix pause. Could last minutes. Could last forever. Who knows?”

Hamid stared at her, horrified. “But I have a connecting flight in four hours!”

She shrugged. “You and everyone else, buddy. Step aside.”

Before Hamid could process this, a man holding a stack of paperwork taller than his head barreled into him. “Excuse me!” the man shouted, spilling forms everywhere. “I need to talk to someone about my asylum application! It says page 37B needs a stamp, but where is 37B?!”

Hamid stumbled backward, tripping over his suitcase and landing in a pile of someone else’s dropped luggage. A small, elderly woman with a cane and surprising agility helped him up.

“You think this is bad?” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve been waiting for my visa since Reagan was president.”

“But—what do we do?” Hamid asked, panicking.

“Wait. And maybe buy snacks.” She pointed to a vending machine that had a line of at least twenty people, one of whom appeared to be arguing with the machine itself.

Suddenly, the airport speakers crackled. “Attention, passengers: The Refugee Travel Pause is now… paused. You may proceed to your gates.”

A collective cheer erupted, and Hamid’s heart soared. He grabbed his suitcase and sprinted toward the gate, weaving through the human obstacle course of stressed travelers and abandoned strollers.

But just as he reached the boarding area, the speakers crackled again.

“Correction: The Refugee Travel Pause has been… unpaused. Please return to your prior state of chaos. Thank you.”

Hamid stood frozen, his suitcase in one hand, his dignity in the other. Somewhere in the distance, the man with the paperwork yelled, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

Hamid sighed, sinking into the nearest chair. Maybe that vending machine wasn’t such a bad idea after all.