We sat together in the dark, musty office, nervous. The woman across the desk had a wrinkle between her forehead as she frowned at her computer, then back at the papers. “So, what made you want to adopt a baby?” Her voice was bored, toneless. The keyboard clattered.

“We’ve always wanted children, but we… can’t.” My wife sobbed into her lace handkerchief.

 “You didn’t list your career.” Clatter, clatter.

“Data center. Night shift.” Hopefully that explained my pallor.

“Stay at home wife.” Actress, pre-talkies.

She gave us an appraising look. She wasn’t allowed to ask whether we were “Undead Americans.”

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