Midnight in Rochester, New York

Border patrol agents boarded the train, quietly woke us up one by one,
and asked us our nationalities. Other passengers tell me that this is
standard action here, as we are rolling along the border with Canada.
The agents asked each one of us our nationality. Those answering
"American" were let back to sleep. My accent seemed strange to my
inquiring agent, however, so he asked me where I was born. He seemed
satisfied by my reply of "Fort Dix" and so moved on. Foreigners had to
present passports. Further down the car, one man was questioned by the
agents and then escorted off the train by them, into a waiting patrol
car. Maybe he forgot his passport? I couldn't hear the conversation
between him and the agents, nor could my fellow passengers hear.
Rumbling down the tracks into the dark of night along Lake Ontario,
sleep overtakes me.