April 8th 1997
Jenny pressed her eye sockets against cold padded apertures, blurry lines of random numbers and color-coded strips coming slowly into focus amid a black void.
“First line, please,” Bob droned—the morose DMV worker whom, so far, had been a delight.
Until now she wasn’t aware that being a day late to renew one’s license was a moral offense in line with suffocating a kitten. But the way he’d scowled when she slid over the expired piece of plastic led her to think she’d done all that and worse to him personally.
Jenny focused, the sudden pressure of being forced to recite the assortment of digits making her second-guess herself.
“5, 3, 3, 7.”
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