Free A Step from Heaven by An Na

Joon snaps and changes the channel.
    I tilt my head down in shame, look at the worn, shaggy orange rug that was too cheap to pass up at a garage sale. I bite my nails, trying to remember all the things I wanted to buy, but the dreams are lost in the roar of gunfight on TV and clanking dishes in the kitchen.
    A dollar for afternoon dreams is expensive and cheap. I sigh, draw up my knees, and pull the collar of my shirt into my mouth. But somebody has to win. Somebody gets the jackpot. Why not us? The soft cotton becomes wet with spit as I chew and think of how to pay for next week’s Superlotto ticket. My foot falls asleep and I shift positions. A tiny gleam catches the corner of my eyes. I glance over.
    There. Shining under the lamp, Uhmma’s glass flower vase of pennies. I jerk my head away. No, never. But. My eyes skim across the ceiling, down the far wall, over to the bookshelf. There.
    One hundred pennies will pull a pocket low and clank loudly on the store counter. I remember today’s checkout girl giving Uhmma’s chapped red hands a long look as Uhmma counted out one quarter, two dimes, five nickels, and thirty pennies. I stare at the muddy, ugly pennies and wonder. Are they worth millions?

Making Sure
    Apa leads. I stay a step behind. Apa peers down at the scrap of paper in his hand and then looks up at the number on the gray stucco building. I silently read the words on the plaque, Department of Immigration and Naturalization Services.
    This is it, Apa says, turning to me. I nod and follow him to the glass doors. We push past and find ourselves immediately standing in line. Metal detectors. Like at the airport. I lean to one side and watch a blue-uniformed man holding some keys while a woman passes through the empty door frame. We wait for our turn.
    Once we are past the metal detectors, Apa stares at a door and a sign. He stands there trying to read the words. Trying to make some sense of where we are to go for the renewal of my green card. Apa jerks his thumb at the door and asks, What does this say?
    â€œAuthorized Personnel Only,” I read.
    Apa waits for me to translate.
    We cannot go in there. It is only for the people who work here, I say.
    Apa notices a crowd of people heading for a large waiting room to our right. He starts to follow.
    Apa, I call out as I read a sign posted near some double wooden doors.
    He turns around, confused.
    This way, I say and point in the opposite direction.
    Apa rubs the back of his neck and starts back toward me.
    I lead. Apa stays a step behind.
    Another line. Just to get into the room. We stand and wait our turn. At the front of the line a stooped grandma with curly white hair and eyes the color of summer grass hands us a small baby-blue ticket with a number.
    â€œThis is for the information window and they will direct you to where you need to go next,” the grandma repeats like a machine. Apa opens his mouth to ask a question, but the grandma has already started to hand a ticket to the person behind us. Apa and I step out of the way into the large, windowless waiting area. Rows and rows of black chairs are filled with people sitting, slouching, reading, dozing. Some people stand and line the walls like flies on a humid summer afternoon.
    At the front of the room there are five windows, but only three are open. Each window is distinguished from the others by a sign that hangs below its counter with the word “Window” and a number between one and five. Above each window there is a flashing red number announcing which person may step up next. Only one window carries the sign “Information.” We find two empty seats toward the front as though that will get us to the window faster.
    I lean close to Apa and study the ticket in his hand. Ninety-three.
    â€œFifty-five,” the information lady calls out.
    One by one, as the information lady calls out a number, a person or whole families stand to go ask their question. Some people take