My Ultimate Sign-in System Made Me Invincible Chapter 556 Volunteers Incoming

Forty minutes had elapsed since the shuttle's landing when a sleek, black government vehicle materialized outside a residence in Colonia Del Valle. The driver remained seated, engine humming, while the liaison, a Mr. Castillo from the Foreign Affairs Ministry whose briefing notes detailed his secondary duties with meticulous bureaucratic phrasing, approached the front door and delivered a firm knock.

A woman, appearing to be in her late fifties, answered the summons. Behind her, an adult son stood poised with two packed travel bags at his feet. Deeper within the house, discernible through the hallway, a man was seated in a chair positioned near a window. His gaze was directed towards the entrance, yet his head held a peculiar stillness, characteristic of someone whose body no longer responded with its former animation.

Castillo introduced himself. The woman regarded him, then shifted her focus to the vehicle parked outside.

"They sent a car," she stated, her voice steady.

"Yes, that's correct," Castillo replied.

Her eyes then darted back to her husband, then to her son, and finally settled on the bags.

"We have been ready since yesterday," she informed him.

Castillo offered a nod. "In that case, we can depart now, if you are ready."

Her son effortlessly lifted both bags. She returned to her husband, leaning in to whisper something near his ear. With a slow, deliberate motion, indicative of a man who had mastered the art of making every movement count, he reached for her hand. She accepted his touch. They remained connected thus for a brief, poignant moment.

Then, she straightened, her hand still clasped with his, and gently assisted him to his feet.

Castillo held the door open.

Together, they emerged – the woman, her husband moving with careful steps beside her, their son following closely with the luggage, and they proceeded towards the car under the flat, midday sun illuminating the city.

***

The Guatemalan government vehicle had departed from Guatemala City long before the break of dawn.

Under typical circumstances, the journey to the border spanned a four-hour duration. The family, however, had been forewarned of potential delays and had meticulously prepared for them—medications arranged for immediate access, the portable suction device fully charged and within easy reach, and the specially designed positioning cushion, ensuring Maya's comfort during extended travel, expertly placed behind her.

Maya, a nine-year-old girl, had never experienced air travel before.

Her mother, Rosa, occupied the adjacent seat in the rear, one hand resting gently on her daughter's arm—a familiar gesture during their journeys. It was a touch that conveyed presence and support without demanding a response from Maya, a silent affirmation of 'I am here.'

The government liaison, who had introduced himself at their doorstep at the early hour of four in the morning and had remained largely silent since, rode in the front passenger seat. He fully grasped the nature of his role. Having perused the pertinent file, he was well aware of the arduous journey the family had undertaken to reach this particular morning. Before delivering that initial knock, he had resolved that his sole responsibility was to eliminate any impediments, not to engage in superfluous conversation.

Maya observed the blur of the highway through the window as the urban landscape gradually receded, replaced by the dark, undulating shapes of the countryside moving past in the pre-dawn twilight. She was already awake, having roused herself even before the liaison's arrival. Her mother had found her lying still at three o'clock, her eyes wide open, fixed on the ceiling.

"Can't you sleep?" Rosa had inquired softly.

"I was thinking," Maya responded.

"About what, dear?"

Maya contemplated the question with unusual seriousness, a demeanor she adopted for most matters. "About everything, and how it's going to feel. I can hardly wait to finally be able to walk around freely, without any more pain."

Rosa gazed at her daughter for a moment, a tender smile gracing her lips. She then rose and commenced the final stages of their packing.

Upon reaching the border, the liaison managed all proceedings with quiet efficiency. The crossing was completed in under twenty minutes, a swiftness that Rosa later understood had been prearranged.

On the Mexican side of the border, a second vehicle awaited them. A different liaison, this one representing the Mexican Foreign Ministry, unloaded their bags with unobtrusive assistance and held the car door with considerable care.

They arrived in Mexico City just before noon.

As Rosa glimpsed the airport from the elevated expressway, a tangible shift occurred within her chest. Through the vehicle's window, she could discern the landing zone; the shuttle rested upon the tarmac, a dark, silent silhouette against the flat midday sky, appearing impressively vast even from such a distance.

Maya noticed it as well.

A moment of silence passed. Then, she turned to her mother.

"It's real," she breathed, her voice filled with wonder.

Rosa gently took her hand. "Yes, it's real," she echoed, her own voice thick with emotion.

The vehicle descended from the elevated highway, turning towards the terminal building.

***

The Polish government vehicle arrived outside the apartment block in Praga-Południe precisely at seven in the morning.

The liaison officer, a Ms. Kowalska affiliated with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, had thoroughly reviewed the case file the preceding evening. The diagnosis: Stage 4 colorectal cancer. Age: fifty-seven. Initial diagnosis: fourteen months prior.

After reading the file, she had placed it down and reflected for a short while on the immense effort required from a man in such a condition to even submit an application.

She then proceeded to knock on the door.

The door swung open almost instantaneously. A younger woman stood in the doorway—his daughter, ostensibly in her early thirties, bearing the unmistakable signs of having forgone sleep but having seemingly accepted this discomfort as a necessary consequence."He's prepared," she stated, "He's been ready since yesterday." Down the corridor behind her, a man approached the exit. He appeared gaunter than his photograph from eight months prior, the one on his application. Though he moved without aid, each step was deliberate, as if his body demanded careful handling. Clad in a coat, he carried no belongings. His daughter managed both bags. Reaching the threshold, he addressed Kowalska. "Piotr Nowak." "I'm aware," Kowalska responded. "The car awaits." His gaze drifted past her towards the waiting vehicle, then flickered upward to the sky briefly – a flat, grey Warsaw November morning – and a subtle shift crossed his features. He turned his attention back to her. "Then let's depart without delay," he declared. His daughter secured the apartment. They descended the stairs, Piotr navigating each step with his hand on the railing, his daughter by his side, and Kowalska, without prompting, carried one of the bags. Upon reaching the car, he paused, turning to survey the building's facade one last time – its windows, the entrance, the unremarkable face of the place he'd called home for twenty-two years. His contemplation lasted three seconds. Then, he entered the car. *** Other volunteers, similarly collected via private government-provided transport, were also en route to their respective airports.