Elias froze. This was it. Salvation. He stumbled toward the plexiglass window, clutching his paperwork like a holy relic.
"Next! B-zero-zero-three!" a voice crackled over a blown-out speaker.
Elias looked back at the room. The sandwich man was opening a second bag. The toddler was reaching for his other leg. The TikTok loop started again.
He looked at the exit. He could leave. He could walk out into the fresh air, forget the registration, and live as an outlaw. But as he stood up, the egg-sandwich man sneezed, a fine mist settling over the back of Elias’s neck.
To his left, a man was eating an egg salad sandwich with his mouth open, the wet smack-smack sound echoing off the linoleum. To his right, a toddler was methodically wiping a sticky lollipop against Elias’s expensive wool trousers.
Elias checked his watch. He had been here for three hours. He began to calculate the collective misery in the room. If human irritation could be converted into electricity, this room could power a small city—or at least a very large microwave to cook everyone in it.
The clerk behind the glass looked at him with eyes that had seen the death of stars. She didn't speak. She just pointed to a small sign taped to the glass:
The fluorescent lights in the DMV waiting room didn't just hum; they vibrated at a frequency designed to loosen tooth enamel. Elias sat on a plastic chair that had been molded for a body type that didn't exist in nature.