He could get a REAL ID like anyone else, right? And wouldn’t having a REAL ID make it even easier for him to go and do his terror thing?”

“Hmm…. You can’t be the first to have thought of that. Homeland Security has all these highly paid experts to think about this stuff. It’s their job, so they must have already—”

“And if he’s not already in the U.S., a new terror guy could just come in with a visitor’s visa like anyone else, right? Visitors don’t have to get REAL ID, it’s only for citizens, but if foreign terrorists really want one they’ll just buy fakes and conceal them with tinfoil, or maybe they’ll forge a visitor’s visa and a passport if that’s easier. There’s always a way.”

“Jane, keep it down, will you?”

Step by plodding step, they made their way into the applicant holding area. They passed another poster, this one depicting a long line of faceless people all wearing the same nondescript, gray clothes. Its mood was dreary and dark. “Are Your Documents in Order?” it asked. “Citizens Without Valid ID can be Detained. Annual Renewals with Satisfactory Drug Tests now Accepted at this Location.”

They advanced a few more steps until, at last, they stood in front of the applications processing clerk.

“Hello, my name is Felicia, employee 02B-2331,” said the clerk.

Behind Felicia was an old Norman Rockwell poster tacked up on the wall between filing cabinets. The scene depicted a mother and father who had just tucked their idyllic moppets into bed. The children had already fallen asleep as the doting parents looked on. On the bedroom floor was an old-fashioned rag doll. “Ours to Fight For,” the poster caption read. “Freedom from Fear.”

“How you doin’ today,” Felicia said in a flat tone, looking over the documents Benson handed to her.

“Fine, just fine.”

Frowning at the papers, Felicia suddenly left her station to check a notice posted on a bulletin board. She came back and turned Benson’s application around on the counter, pointing at the offending section with ultra-long, sparkling purple fingernails. Bracelets on both her wrists rattled on the counter when she leaned over. She shook her head, looking at the documents.

“Sorry, we got a problem, hon,” she said, looking out over the crowded waiting room. “Form 4562-3C has your first name as Thomas but this one here, it says, Tom. See that? Shoot, I must’ve seen a thousand Tommy’s with a ‘y,’ Tommie’s with a ‘ie,’ Thomas’ with and without a ‘h,’ if I seen one. We need the same legal name on all your docs, hon, you understand? Also, your address over here, it says Elm Avenue, but it’s Elm Street on this one, you see that?”

Glancing at the wall clock, Felicia waited a moment for Benson to take in all the transgressions. Scooping up the papers without warning, she shuffled them until they lined up precisely at the corners and stapled them together.

“You fix these source docs and come back, okay? And because you’re filing ‘married,’ Jane here will need to come back, too. And don’t forget your urine samples. You have a nice day,” she said, looking out at the crush of waiting people. “Next!”

“Whoa there, Felicia, just wait a second,” Benson said. “I can’t take another day off work for this. I won’t stand in line again, that’s just not going to happen. I’ll mail it.”

“Sorry, mail’s not allowed, but you can appeal if you want.”

Felicia pointed at a cluttered table strewn with piles of forms.

“You go complete the forms that apply to your particular situation, then you go join the appeals line so we can process you. You’ll be notified within 120 days of our decision. The application fee is still the same $240; no extra charge for appeals.”

“That’s $240 for both of us?”

“No, $240 each, and next time, please have your check ready and attached to the application.