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 man probably 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 actually do?" 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.
The room falls silent. Twenty-something neighbors frozen mid-chant, signs drooping, the awkward energy of a surprise party that's surprised the wrong person.
"I..." Ursak's gaze sweeps the room, taking in the signs, the phones recording, Dex's laptop still glowing with immigration law research. "I heard shouting. Thought someone was in distress."
Of course you did. Because he's the kind of person who hears raised voices and assumes someone needs help, not that the raised voices might be helping him.
"Surprise community support demonstration," I say weakly, suddenly aware of how this must look. A room full of humans chanting about his personal business, making his private immigration struggle into a public spectacle without asking permission.
His expression shifts through confusion, recognition, and something I can't quite read. Embarrassment? Gratitude? Fear that this attention might make things worse?
I drop my sign and step forward, hands already moving before my brain fully engages. Months of watching Ursak practice orcish sign language have taught me a few basic gestures. I attempt what I think is the sign for "sorry"—fingers curved, palm toward heart, then extending outward.
Ursak blinks. Then his eyebrows rise, and despite everything, his mouth twitches.
Mrs. Albion whispers loudly, "What did she just say?"
"I believe," Ursak says carefully, "she just offered to trade livestock with my clan."
Heat floods my face. "That's not… I was trying to say sorry—"
"The gesture for apology is more..." He demonstrates, hands moving with practiced grace. Similar to what I attempted, but with a subtle rotation that apparently makes the difference between "I'm sorry" and "I have goats for sale."
A few neighbors chuckle. The tension breaks slightly, but the fundamental awkwardness remains. We're still a room full of people who organized around his problems without consulting him, no matter how good our intentions.
"This is really kind," Ursak continues, his voice carrying that careful politeness he uses when navigating complex social situations. "But perhaps we should discuss—"
"You're right," I interrupt, reading the discomfort in his posture. "This was... we should have asked first. Before organizing anything."
Our eyes meet across the cluttered laundry room. His expression is complicated with gratitude mixed with something like panic, appreciation tempered by the bone-deep wariness of someone whose entire future depends on not making waves.
He manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Thank you. All of you. But perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"
The neighbors begin to disperse, murmuring among themselves, collecting their signs and laundry with the slightly deflated energy of activists whose target audience has asked them to quiet down. Dex packs up her laptop, shooting me a look that clearly says we'll debrief later.
Within minutes, the laundry room empties until it's just Ursak and me, standing among abandoned protest signs and the lingering scent of fabric softener.
"I fucked that up," I say before he can speak.
"You were trying to help."
"Without asking what kind of help you actually wanted." I lean against the washing machine, suddenly exhausted. "God, I'm such an idiot. Making your private business into a public demonstration like you're some charity case instead of just a person dealing with a shitty situation."
Ursak is quiet for a long moment, studying the scattered signs on the floor. "The livestock offer was quite generous, though. My clan values goats highly."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Shut up."
"Two healthy goats could feed a family through winter—"
"I said shut up." But I'm smiling now, and so is he, and for a moment the weight of immigration deadlines and bureaucratic nightmares lifts just enough to let us breathe.
The moment stretches, fragile as spun glass. I want to ask about the letter, about his deadline, about why he's been avoiding my calls. Want to tell him that seeing him scared has terrified me in ways I don't fully understand yet.
Instead, I bend to collect the fallen signs, needing something to do with my hands. "Dex found some legal precedents. Cases where community support documentation helped. If you want to hear about them."
"Maya." My name sounds different in his voice. Heavier. "This attention, it could make things worse. Immigration officials don't always appreciate community organizing around individual cases."
The words hit like cold water. "I didn't think—"
"I know. And I'm grateful. More than I can express in any language." He picks up a sign reading "URSAK BELONGS HERE," fingers tracing the uneven lettering. "But I need to be careful. Strategic. One wrong move and..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
I stack the remaining signs into a neat pile, anger builds. Not at him, never at him, but at the system that's made him so afraid of accepting help that he'd rather face deportation alone than risk the wrong kind of attention.
"What if we kept it quiet?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. "No more flash mobs, no public demonstrations. Just strategic documentation. Legal research. The kind of support that doesn't make waves."
Ursak looks up from the sign, something shifting in his expression. Hope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
"You would do that? After I've been..." He gestures vaguely, encompassing days of avoided calls and closed doors.
"After you've been scared and trying to protect yourself? Yeah, I'd do that." I meet his eyes, surprised by my own certainty. "I'd do a lot of things, actually. If you'd let me."
The admission hangs between us, heavier than I intended. We're not just talking about immigration law anymore, and we both know it.
Ursak sets the sign aside and takes a step closer. "Maya—"
"I know it's complicated," I rush to say. "With the visa situation and everything uncertain. I needed you to know. That you don't have to handle this alone. Whatever happens."
"And if I'm deported?"
The question cuts deep, but I force myself to meet it head-on. "Then we figure out how to make it work anyway. Long distance. Visits. Whatever it takes."
His smile this time reaches his eyes. Small and tentative, but real. "Stone warms slow?"
"Yeah." I smile back, remembering the orcish idiom he taught me. "Stone warms slow. But some stones are worth the wait."
He reaches out, fingers brushing mine where they rest on the washing machine. Brief contact, but it sends electricity up my arm and settles something restless in my soul.
"Thirteen days," he says quietly.
"Thirteen days to build the strongest case possible." I turn my hand palm up, letting our fingers intertwine properly. "No more hiding. No more handling this alone."
"No more livestock trading either?"
"I make no promises about the livestock."
His laugh rumbles through the small space, rich and warm and exactly what I needed to hear. For the first time since this nightmare started, I feel like we might actually have a chance.
Thirteen days. It's not long, but it's what we have. And maybe, with the right strategy and a little bit of luck, it'll be enough.