O i ly S a m a n t h a L a u r e n J o s e p h
Encik Din looked at the paperwork on his desk. What was the point of being a high-ranking immigration officer and having a secretary when he had to do all this filling in? Wasn’t it enough that he had to sign so many papers a day? As it was, he only had an hour until the foreigners came. He moved the empty, oil-stained paper plate that had held three egg and potato currypuffs less than five minutes ago to a corner of the table and hoped his hands weren’t too greasy. He’d wiped them with sanitiser and tissue paper, but he didn’t want to go through the whole process of getting up, putting on a mask, putting on gloves (over his slippery hands, too), and walking out of his office to the washrooms. It was a lot of effort. And he might have to see the swathes of refugees, unclean and somehow oily, hunkered together in their cells.
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