Wolfgang is never sure what to say when names come up. This week maybe they're Kivanç, maybe next week they're Sasha, Alexis, Danny. Realistically the chances of anyone finding out who they are by their real name alone, then reporting that information to immigration who would then track them down and deport them for being here without a visa, is extremely low. It's complicated.
They fold and smooth out the napkin they were fiddling with, their eyes down on the plastic table. “My name is Wolfgang.”
— not a name you hear every day, that. (At least it gives a suggestion of gender, though.)