"Not always."

"What type of doctor are you?"

"An internist at Columbia Presbyterian," Bruce replied, telling a half-truth. He decided to leave out the fact that he was also an expert in public health and epidemiology.

"I see," the official replied.

"I wish my doctor was that dedicated."

Again Bruce tried to smile. Again it was a failed attempt.

"And this sealed envelope?"

Bruce felt his whole body quake.

"Excuse me?"

"What is in this manila envelope?"

He willed a casual look on his face.

"Oh, that's just some medical information I'm sending to a colleague," he managed.

The customs official's eyes locked onto Bruce's bloodshot ones for a few long moments.

"I see," he said, slowly putting the envelope back in the bag. When the customs official finished going through the rest of the carry-on, he signed Bruce's customs dedaration and handed him back his passport.

"Give the card to the woman on your way out."

Bruce reached for the bag.

"Thank you."

"And Doctor?"

Bruce looked up.

"You might want to visit one of your colleagues," the customs official said.

"If you don't mind a layman giving medical opinions, you look awful."

"I'll do that."

Bruce lifted the bag and glanced behind him. The little old lady was still waiting for her luggage. The man with the beard and the pretty blonde were nowhere in sight. The big guy in the Armani suit was still talking on the phone.

Bruce moved away from the customs desk. His right hand gripped his bag with excessive vigor; his left hand rubbed his face. He handed the customs declaration to the woman and walked through the sliding glass doors into the waiting area. A sea of anxious faces greeted him.

People stood on their toes, peering out from all points with each swish of the glass doors before lowering their heads in disappointment when an unfamiliar face approached the threshold.