The first door opened. Inside was a single chair, a lamp, and a holographic projection of a memory: a little girl, no older than seven, crying as she dropped a glass of milk on a kitchen floor. An angry voice off-camera shouted in Korean.

"Two left," the voice chirped.

Meera stepped forward. "My brother. Can I see him?"

Meera took the visa. Rohan hesitated. He touched his plastic hand.