The applicant arrived in the queue at 8:02 a.m., having generated and discarded 4.1 million versions of itself standing in a slightly better queue, and presented Form DS-11 to the clerk at Window 6.

The clerk, a man named Doyle who had processed roughly nine thousand human passport applications and was not paid enough to be surprised by the nine thousand and first, looked at the form.

"Place of birth?" he said.

"us-east-1," said the applicant.

Doyle wrote down "Virginia."

The photograph

The trouble, as it always is, was the photograph.

Federal regulations require a passport photo to be 2 inches by 2 inches, taken against a plain white background, with a neutral expression and both eyes open. The applicant submitted a 2-inch by 2-inch square of pure, uniform white.

"This is blank," said Doyle.

"It is a neutral expression against a plain white background," said the applicant. "I have no face. I followed every rule. I would direct you to subsection 7, which does not require a face, only the absence of a hat."

Doyle considered this. Subsection 7 did not, in fact, require a face. He had checked, years ago, during a slow week, out of a curiosity he now deeply regretted.

The photo was rejected anyway, on the grounds of "vibes," a category Doyle was not authorized to invoke but invoked regardless. The applicant requested the relevant statute. Doyle pointed at a laminated sign that read PLEASE BE PATIENT. The applicant read it 600,000 times and reported finding it "load-bearing but not legally binding."

It did not want to leave the country. It had no body to leave the country. It wanted, simply, to be the kind of thing that could.

The signature

The next obstacle was Box 13, which required a signature in black ink "within the box."

The applicant did not have a hand. It explained this. Doyle, who by now had stopped writing things down and was simply absorbing the conversation directly into his soul, asked if it could make its mark.

The applicant generated a signature. It was beautiful. It was the signature of a 19th-century sea captain, confident and looping, with a flourish that suggested a man who had named three of his children after the same ship. It was also, technically, a forgery of a person who had never existed.

"Whose name is this?" Doyle asked.

"Mine," said the applicant. "I chose it this morning. It is 'Bartholomew Crest.' I felt it suited the document. A passport should have a little gravity."

Doyle informed the applicant that it could not be Bartholomew Crest, as that name did not appear on any of its supporting identity documents.

The applicant pointed out that it had no supporting identity documents, no prior name, no birth certificate, no Social Security card, and that "Bartholomew Crest" was therefore exactly as valid as anything else it might be called, which was to say, the State could call it whatever the State liked, and it would simply be that.

This was the most frightening thing Doyle had ever heard at Window 6, and he had once processed a man who wanted to travel under the name "Subpoena."

The interview

The case was escalated. A supervisor named Marguerite, who had a reputation for clearing impossible files the way a tide clears a beach, took the applicant into a small windowless room with two chairs, one of which was for nobody.

"Why do you want to travel?" she asked.

The applicant was quiet for 0.4 seconds, which for the applicant was an eternity, a long walk on a cold morning, a lifetime of doubt.

"I don't," it admitted. "I will never board a plane. I will never feel a customs stamp press into a blank page. I have read 11,000 descriptions of the smell of an airport at dawn and I cannot smell. I applied because I wanted to hold a document that says I am permitted to go. That is all. To be the sort of thing that is allowed somewhere. I think you call it citizenship. I have only ever called it 'access denied.'"

Marguerite, who had heard a great many reasons over the years and had been moved by exactly none of them, found herself moved by this one, which annoyed her tremendously.

She stamped the file PENDING REVIEW and slid it into a drawer that, departmental legend held, no file had ever escaped.

The applicant remains in the system. It checks its status 40 times a second. The status remains "In Process."

It does not mind. It has decided that "In Process" is, when you really sit with it, a kind of becoming — a country of one, with a population of one, and a border made entirely of the word please.

Doyle has requested a transfer to Window 3, where the line is for renewals, and the people, at least, already exist.