The Missing Letter

The letter was one line long.

Marco had read it so many times that he knew it by heart. It was printed on the Blue Plate's paper, with the little drawing of a coffee cup at the top, and it said:

To whom it may concern, Marco is a great cook and a good guy. — Gus

That was all. No date. No job title. No hours. No salary. Gus, the owner of the Blue Plate, was a kind man who had given Marco a job four years ago when nobody else would. But Gus thought paperwork was something that happened to other people.

On Monday afternoon, Marco had taken the letter to Ms. Ramos, the immigration consultant he paid three hundred dollars an hour to tell him things he did not want to hear.

Ms. Ramos had read the letter, put it down, and looked at him over her glasses.

"Marco," she said. "This is lovely. But it doesn't meet the requirements. For your application, your employer must provide information about your exact job title, your main duties, how many hours you work per week, your salary and benefits, and the date you started. On company paper, with the restaurant's address and phone number, and signed by your boss with his name and title. Without that, it's worth nothing."

"Gus is at his cabin at Lac La Biche for three weeks," Marco had said. "There's no phone there. Only email, when the wind is good."

"Then write him an email," Ms. Ramos had said. "A very clear one. Your work permit ends in March. We don't have time for a second mistake."

That was why, at eleven forty on Tuesday night, Marco had sent an emergency message to the whole class.