My neighbor, Mr. Shimada, has worked customs at Narita Airport for thirty-one years. He says he can always tell when a kid is coming home from a year with an American host family. It's the suitcase. They never bring home souvenirs. They bring home a family. He let me write down a few. A suitcase that would not close. Inside: eleven boxes of macaroni and cheese. Her host mom had heard her say once, in September, that she liked it. (Kaho, 16, Wisconsin) A gallon Ziploc bag of red dirt. On it, in marker: "OKLAHOMA. In case you miss it." Soil is not allowed into Japan. Mr. Shimada had to take it. She cried. He says he has thought about that dirt for nine years. (Hinata, 17, Oklahoma) One jar of Grandma's homemade pickles. Wrapped in a football jersey. Wrapped in a Texas flag. Wrapped in a second football jersey. Mr. Shimada says it was the most heavily protected object he has ever inspected, including diplomatic mail. (Kota, 16, Texas) A Christmas ornament with her name hand-painted on it. A note taped to the box: "For our tree. We're leaving your hook empty till you come back." (Rena, 17, Kansas) Four pounds of gas station beef jerky, "for the plane." The flight is thirteen hours. He had not eaten a single piece. He said his host dad bought it for him, so he couldn't. (Tomoki, 16, Montana) A church directory. On page 12, her photo. Under it, not "Exchange Student." Just the family's last name. Like it was hers. (Airi, 17, Michigan) A phone charger with a strip of tape on it: "MOM'S. DON'T LOSE IT." At the airport, her host mom had pulled her own charger out of the wall and pushed it into her hand. (Yua, 16, Georgia) A camo hat. He has never hunted. He will never hunt. He would not take it off during the inspection. (Sosuke, 17, Arkansas) And on the customs form, under "Items to declare," a girl had written one word in English and then crossed it out because she thought it was against the rules. "Family." (Saki, 16, Iowa) And then there are the kids who come through with almost nothing. Last summer, a boy came to Mr. Shimada's counter with one small bag. Clothes. A toothbrush. That was it. Hayate. Seventeen. Alabama. He was crying. Not a little. The kind of crying a seventeen-year-old boy tries very hard to hide and can't. Mr. Shimada asked if he was all right. The boy said his host dad couldn't come to the airport. He worked double shifts at the plant. They had said goodbye at five that morning, in the kitchen, fast, the way men do. The boy said he hadn't said it right. He hadn't said thank you the way he meant to. Then his phone buzzed on the inspection table. A photo. A big man in work coveralls, standing at the chain-link fence at the far end of the runway at the Atlanta airport. Holding up a piece of cardboard from a pizza box. In black marker: "THAT'S MY KID UP THERE." He had left the plant on his break, driven to the airport, found the end of the runway, and stood at the fence in the heat until a plane with that boy on it went over his head. Then he drove back and finished his shift. Mr. Shimada says he is not supposed to look at people's phones. He asked if he could see it again. He has opened thousands of bags in thirty-one years. From every country in the world. He says only the kids from America come home carrying a whole family. And never once has the important thing been something anybody bought. So, America. You think you're just packing a snack for the plane. You're a bag of red dirt we had to take away. You're an empty hook on a tree in Kansas. You're a man in work clothes at a fence in Georgia, holding a pizza box at the sky. You never declared any of it. It got through anyway. (Wisconsin: the macaroni got through. We are not monsters.)