“Were you born or have you ever lived in or received medical attention in any of the following countries since 1977: Cameroon, Central African Republic, Chad, Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Niger, or Nigeria?”
Sean Coleman glared in irritation over the narrow, neatly kept desk at the woman who had asked him the awkward question. She was a large, top-heavy individual in her sixties. Her hair was short and nearly as white as the short-sleeved shirt she wore. Thick, black, wing-tipped glasses rested upon the edge of her round nose and her deadpan eyes suggested that she was in no mood for whatever guff she predicted from the man now silently judging her.
“Jesus. Are you kidding me?” asked Sean. His big body shuffled around uncomfortably in the orange fiberglass chair that would have been too small for even an average-sized adult. “I was just in here two days ago. You asked me these exact same questions then. Do you really think that sometime in the past two days I visited a witch doctor in some half-assed, bamboo hut in Africa?”
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