This boy: hands in his front pockets, chest fully upright, head slightly tilted. He is barely seven years old. He is wearing partially faded, blue jean shorts loosely held to his waist by a brown belt. This belt, as the person who sold it to his mother claimed, is supposed to be made of leather but it is starting to tear up; surely this cannot be real leather. This boy: he is wearing brown sandals. The sandals are dusty. He probably shouldn’t have gone out to play. His mother is mad at him for a few moments but then remembers the task at hand — she will deal with him later. This boy: he stands there waiting impatiently. He hears his friends in the distance playing soccer. He is supposed to be playing with them but he is stuck there. Forcing a smile, he gets ready. He waits but nothing is happening. He looks at his mother, his facial expression radiating the frustration of having to stand there so long but his pout is met with a nod of disapproval. It is time. Again, he forces a smile. Seconds later, it happens – the photo has finally been taken.The flash blinds him for a few microseconds.

I hold the photo closer. This boy: the bright red t-shirt he is wearing only has three letters. I look at the letters and a strange feeling engulfs me. Could it have been a coincidence? I look at the boy again. His eyes: those brown eyes pierce straight through me. It is as if he knew that on this specific day, hour, minute and second I would be right where I am looking into his eyes through the photo — his stare transcends time and space. It cannot be a coincidence. He seems to be telling me, “I can see the bewilderment in your eyes but I knew it all along.” The three letters on his shirt come together to form a word. While contemplating what all this could mean, I am overcome by a strange slumber.

***

When I open my eyes, I find myself in this strange place. It is noisy; there is some kind of bell ringing in the background and people are moving back-and-forth. Most of the buildings are rectangular and have white-and-brown painted concrete walls with what seem to be asbestos roofing sheets. The ground is slightly wet and the air is humid so it must have been raining a few hours ago. The buildings’ windows are at chest level, so I peek into one of them. This building has wooden desks and chairs arranged in neat rows and columns. I see a chalk board right in front, and I immediately realize that the building is a classroom. A quick look at the other rooms validates my assumption; this place is in fact some kind of high school. Among the myriad of people moving around, I spot one boy who seems as if he can help me find my way; he is wearing a meticulously ironed white shirt tucked into dark pants which overhang perfectly polished black shoes. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t respond. I raise my voice and try to get his attention again, but he still doesn’t respond. I reach out and try to grab his shoulder, but my hand goes right through him. This is strange.

I must be dreaming—that’s the only explanation that makes sense. I try to force myself to wake up so I close my eyes. When I open them, I am still in the same place. Usually, I can wake myself up immediately when I realize that I am dreaming but this time it doesn’t seem to be working – this will definitely be a long night. I am stuck in this strange place and I can’t even interact with anyone. I try to get the attention of a few more people but all my efforts are futile. Frustrated, I decide to just walk around. I continue walking around for what seems to be two hours. Out of boredom, I decide to enter one of the classrooms that has a class in progress. I go right to the back and lean against the wall. The class is learning about basic organic chemistry. Most of the pupils look bored – some of them are even sleeping. The teacher walks to the back of the class and smacks one of the boys that is sleeping. The whole class breaks into laughter as the sleepy head wakes up with a look of terror on his face. Just then, I look out the window and I see him.

It’s the boy from the picture. He is a lot older now but I can still recognize him. He is walking with a group of other people and everyone seems to be excited. I quickly leave the classroom and follow him. Again, none of them can hear or see me. When I get close enough, I am able to hear what they are talking about. From what I can infer, the whole group is just coming from collecting the results of their final high school examinations. They start telling each other their grades. The boy from the picture tells one of his friends that he got six points out of fifty-four. By the surprise and admiration on the faces of the rest of the group, I assume this ‘six points’ must be a very good grade. Someone asks the boy in which country he is planning to go study but he pretends not to have heard the question. It seems every one of them wants to study at a foreign university. According to one of them, most people who get good grades get scholarships to study abroad. I turn to stare at the boy–the look in his eyes is that of someone ready to grab life by its horns and claim his destiny.

The group disbands. Since I was holding an old photo of the boy just before I fell asleep, this dream must be about him or something related to him. I decide to follow the boy all the way to his home. I should be tired but then I remember that this is a dream. We get to his home really late at night. Everyone but his mother is sleeping. He has already told her his grades over the phone during the bus ride. She asks him whether he has decided where he plans to go to college.

He tells her about two countries which have scholarship programs for which he is sure he will qualify because a few alumni from his school and other schools managed to get them. They talk about the local universities’ unscheduled closures, lack of research facilities, insufficient housing resources and over-enrollment–I now understand why the boy and all his friends want to go to college in other countries. Nonetheless, he tells his mother that he will still apply to the local universities just in case things don’t work out. They go to sleep. I look for a comfy sofa, take a seat and close my eyes.

***

The boy wakes up bright and early. It seems he is going somewhere important. He organizes some documents into a folder and heads out. I go after him. We walk for a few minutes and then get on a bus. The bus gets caught in a traffic jam. One hour later, we get to our destination. The boy looks at his watch and then increases his pace. He enters a huge complex which, from the various flag poles, seems to be some kind of international center. He rushes through the corridors, looking right and left for the room he is supposed to go to. He takes a sharp right and finally stumbles into the right place. The security guards at the entrance check his bag and then let him through.

He goes to the front desk of the building and asks for a certain person whose name eludes me. The receptionist points him towards a door in one of the corners of the building and he quickly heads off. He knocks on the door and then a female voice tells him to go in. I stand in the corner as he takes a seat in front of this woman. They exchange greetings, and he tells her he is there to submit his application for the scholarship program they had advertised a few months ago. She begins to talk. After ten minutes, the boy walks out of the room, back bent and shoulders slouched–the scholarship has been cancelled due to lack of funds.

***

It is quiet. The boy is watching a movie. His phone rings. He looks at the number and then quickly answers. I move closer to him. He seems to be talking to a friend. They talk for a few minutes, and then his expression turns grim. He tries to force a laugh, but his disappointment cannot be masked. He asks his friend if he is sure that only four people have been picked. He hangs up the phone. His mother notices the change in his expression; he tells her what his friend has just told him. I quickly put the pieces of the puzzle together – he hasn’t gotten into the second scholarship program he had applied for.

I look into his eyes and I can almost read his mind. He is in complete disbelief. Everything had gone well. He had the best grades at his high school which was among the best schools in the country. The scholarship exams were easy and the interview went really well. To make things worse, only a few other people were as qualified as he was. Still, he has not made the cut. His mother tries to comfort him but he doesn’t want any of that. As if weighed down by his dismay, he drags himself to his bed and sleeps. He is guaranteed a place at his local universities but I don’t think that makes him feel any better–his resolve has been crushed.

The following morning, he stumbles upon a quotation on the internet. He reads it aloud: “I cursed life because I did not have shoes but then I met someone who did not have feet.” He stares into the distance for a long time. With a thunderous thud, the door suddenly opens and the boy’s kid brother quickly darts in and out. The boy snaps out of his meditation and notices that his wallet is gone. The chase begins.

***

Life seems to be going great for the boy; his previous dismay is a long-forgotten memory. When he is at home, he spends most of his time catching up on all the sleep and fun he had missed out on while in high school. According to the system in his country, he will only be enrolling into the local university the following year. His mother walks into the room and sits next to him. She asks him something about the first scholarship he had applied for; his expression immediately changes.

She reminds him that the lady at the international center had said that even though the program had been cancelled, he could still apply directly to the foreign universities. I, too, remember hearing the lady say that the scholarship program was just an intermediate step in the process which only covered the application and testing fees of the foreign universities. His expression does not change. He tells his mother that the process is too expensive. She stands up, looks him straight in the eyes and says, “Let me worry about the costs.”

Something about his expression tells me that he does not have much faith in his mother’s assurance, but he doesn’t object. He gets to work and reads up on everything he will need in order to have his application ready. When he is done, he makes a roadmap with all the associated costs and fees included. From his facial expression, the numbers seem bleak–he could as well have been looking down into a bottomless pit.

***

It is very early in the morning. The place is quiet and everyone is sleeping. The boy’s eyes suddenly open. Seconds later, his alarm rings. He gets out of his bed and prepares himself. I look at the watch and it reads 6 AM. He eats his breakfast and then heads out. There is something different about him: his stride is more energetic and his countenance is beaming with determination. He is heading for the library to begin preparing for the standardized tests he will be writing in three months. From what he tells his friends, the material is like nothing he learnt in high school but that does not seem to dishearten him. Every morning, I watch him rise to meet the day with hope. I don’t think he knows where the money for the exam and application fees will come from, but he continues preparing for the exams and working on the other components of his application.

***

It is late in the evening. The boy is frustrated because he has not managed to finish all the twenty-five minute sections of the practice exam in time. He looks at his calendar and it seems only a few weeks are left. He has to pay the exam fees or he won’t be able to take the test and everything will fall apart.

***

I’ve become almost completely immersed in the boy’s life. There are rumors that the scholarship program which had been cancelled might run in spite of the delay. He keeps calling the lady from the international center but she never has good news for him. At times, he is about to give up but his mother tells him not to worry about the costs and continue to prepare. Even though he knows that her assurances have no substance, he continues treading through the pitch-black tunnel hoping to find light at its end.

***

It is a few days before the payment deadline. The boy’s phone rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, so he cautiously presses the answer button–it is the lady from the international center. Ring, ring, ring… What is going on? The boy has already answered his phone but it is still ringing. Ring, ring, ring…

***

I open my eyes. The alarm tone reverberates in my ears. I check the time and it is 10 AM–I am late for class. I look at the picture of the boy and then quickly slide it into a drawer. After taking a quick shower, I head out without having breakfast.

As I walk by MIT’s Kresge Auditorium, I see the seven-year-old boy from the photo standing a few feet away from me. I begin walking towards him. With every step I take forward, he also moves closer. With each step he takes, he gets older and older. I reach out to him and he mimics my movement. Our fingers touch – the glass pane of the auditorium feels cold. As I walk away, I remember the three-letter word on the red shirt: USA.