Alejandro, a hologram, carries his deported grandfather's handwritten letter across the border to his grandmother Sabrina. In a near-future where holograms can cross borders but people cannot, the family discovers why a letter matters more than any technology.
Connection has been restored.
Please verify your identity.
Yellow monkeys like tar. Identity verified. United States citizen. You have 15,402 unread emails. 3 unread messages.
Filter messages from Vanessa.
Flower, flower.
50 pesos for one bouquet.
Hey, hey.
Churro, hot and fresh. No thanks, I'm stuffed. Hey, try one.
I said hola. Hola.
No more pesos. Are you hungry?
Not hungry, just need some help. I wanted to deliver this letter to my abuela.
Abuela?
It's my grandma. My abuelo, grandpa, wrote this letter. It's the only way we can communicate.
I see.
So he was deported from U.S. 15 years ago. They block everything every time we try to communicate, except letters.
Sorry, could you ask somebody else?
Okay, but you are the only one going back to Oregon.
Please? Sorry.
Dad, why didn't you call?
Fine, I'm fine.
Are you angry at me?
I'm not angry, just tired. How was the job? How's school?
Mom, please.
School's good. Dad, I haven't talked to you in weeks. It was my birthday and you could have been dead for all I know. And now you want to do is tell me that college is important?
Well, I care about your long-term happiness.
Okay, well, could you try caring about my short-term happiness for once?
Vanessa.
You're never there for me. You were never there for Mom either. You are so selfish.
Where does your grandmother live? Give me the letter.
Get ready to arrive. Your destination is on your right.
Hello.
I'm Sabrina, Alejandro's grandmother.
What?
I should go.
No, no, no. You should come in.
I—
I have to go and sleep.
Hello!
He would certainly love it if you came in.
You're— how did you get here?
I'm a hologram.
You didn't tell him.
If I told him, he wouldn't have said yes.
Explain. And apologize.
So I'm allowed to holo across the border because I'm a citizen. I was born here, so I deliver the letters for them.
But why bother with the letters at all if you can holo?
Why don't you come in, Matthew? It's cold out.
You don't say no to Abuela.
Thank you.
You're welcome, and I'm sorry for what our country did to you.
My daughter is asleep upstairs. Alejandro is hers. He was born here, but he spends the summers with my husband.
It's important for him to understand where he came from. I could just watch some videos.
While the government does not allow my husband to holo, he's the only way we have. Our relationship is sacred. There are parts of it no one else deserves to know. Not Alejandro, the government, credit profilers, anyone. Of course, we would prefer to talk all the time, but we've discovered there's some magic in writing. It's never too much, too quick. I never angry at him when I'm done writing a letter. Not once in 15 years. My anger can never make it all the way down the length of my arm and onto the paper. You must understand.
I have a daughter. I haven't seen her in 2 years since the divorce, but she's in the US too. We could visit each other more.
You should give it a try. Here, I'll walk you out.
