Overlaid on top of the DHS mark was “ID 009-99-D121,” Daniel’s number. On the lower left was a microprocessor; a gold square with raised lines running through it. Along the card’s base was a long sequence of bar codes.

“Dad, what the hell is this? No way I’m carrying this creepy card. This is bullshit.”

“It’s like the old driver’s license — and watch your language. You’ll be needing this to attend school and travel anywhere. At least you got yours in the mail — I have to appear in person.”

Some years before, new passports had been introduced with embedded radio frequency identification and digital biometrics. No one had put up a fight. The State Department quietly explained that these enhanced passports had kept radicals, agitators, and dangerous fanatics from entering the Homeland. For reasons of national security, further details could not, of course, be revealed. In much the same way, REAL ID internal passports could help identify criminals, extremists, and insurgents already in the Homeland. Microchips inside the cards transferred data to readers placed throughout all the major cities, linked through the Internet into a globally networked system tracking terrorist movements. REAL ID would also be used to establish employment eligibility, replacing the popular “E-Verify” program.

Citizens were required to produce identification upon demand. It became a routine matter of law and order, and everyone got used to it soon enough. As a series of public service announcements warned, you couldn’t tell just by looking if someone was in the Homeland working on the job legally. He or she could even be a terrorist. One of these announcements, broadcast during children’s programs, featured a collage of average-looking adults represented by a mix of ethnicities, genders, and attire. Some were professionals in suits toting briefcases; others wore denim overalls with hammers and saws in hand.

“Hey kids!” said the announcer. “Can you spot the terrorist?”

Another group of adults carefully drawn from the same socioeconomic strata flashed on the screen.

“Can you spot the terrorist in this group?” asked the announcer. “Well, neither can we. You can’t tell just by looking. If you see something, say something. Call 1-800-TIPS. And now, back to the show.”

“No shoving, please!” police on horseback called out every few minutes through bullhorns.

Citizens lined up around the block in the early morning, waiting for their turn to enter their local Department of Motor Vehicles for processing.

“You over there, move along quietly!”

Police in their smart new black uniforms and helmets patrolled up and down the lines, watching carefully, occasionally taking notes. The long lines of people, impatient as they were, dutifully submitted, already having been alerted by mail that it might take all day to be photographed, fingerprinted, scanned, indexed, interviewed, and stamped for their REAL IDs.

Benson and Jane advanced agonizingly slowly, often coming to a complete halt for several minutes before moving again. They came to stand in front of a giant green and yellow poster promoting greater threat awareness. Divided into eight panels, each of them asked in turn: Are terrorist groups in the area? Are they violent? Do they attack Americans? How active are they? How sophisticated are they? Are they predictable? Will local citizens warn Americans? What tactics and weapons are used? The panels were illustrated with cartoon drawings, including one of a hooded terrorist holding a handsaw to a child’s neck, one of a color-coded threat meter like those used at the airports, and some depicting hate-message graffiti, car bombs exploding, and other violent images.

“I don’t get the point of these,” Benson said, waving his hand dismissively at the poster. “Unless you work for some kind of State intelligence bureau, there’s no way you could answer those questions. Even then, you probably wouldn’t have a clue. It just ends up leaving you more afraid, but then, maybe that’s—”

“Say a terrorist has no criminal record, okay?” Jane said. “Let’s say he’s brand new at the terror biz — he isn’t on a silly watch list.