We stand in line at the DMV, waiting to get our numbers so that we can stand in yet other lines and pay obeisance at the various stations of the cross of this fine bureaucracy. This is the "Express" DMV, so we make our way up to the front relatively quickly, after I've filled out, and torn up, two stabs at the form because of various misreadings of the directions.
Lady behind the counter looks at us with almost no interest at all after we show her our papers and forms and sigils, and recite our magic formulas and ritual politenesses, until finally she cuts us short. "You," she says, pointing at Katie, "need your birth certificate, and you," pointing now with a long finger nail at me, "need your Social Security card," which things, of course, we do not have.
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