It all hinged on his passport. Shawn came here in the mid Eighties on a work visa, which he overstayed. A kindly bureaucracy might overlook that, if he could establish the legality of his entry. But his passport had vanished, he thought in a long-ago burglary of his home safe. In its absence the efforts of a series of (predatory?) immigration lawyers were in vain. Last year, though, his wife found it — in the depths of a closet, stuffed into a cookbook. His permanent-residency card came through this winter, and he could now go home.

He made arrangements immediately, booking …