The next morning, I found myself standing in line at the Department of Natural Resources. The building was sterile, with bright fluorescent lights reflecting off the polished floors. A clerk called my number, and I approached the counter with the license in hand. « I didn’t apply for this, » I explained, placing the document between us.
She glanced at it, then at me, her expression neutral as she typed something into her computer. « It was issued last week, » she said, her tone matter-of-fact. « Would you like me to check who submitted the application? »
« Yes, please, » I replied, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
Minutes ticked by as she navigated the system, her eyes flicking between the screen and me, possibly gauging my reaction. Finally, she looked up, a slight frown creasing her forehead. « It says it was an online application, submitted under your account. »
« That’s impossible, » I stammered, my thoughts racing. « I haven’t logged into that account in years. »
« Would you like to file a dispute? » she asked, already printing out a form.
I nodded, taking the pen she offered and starting to fill it out. As I scribbled down my details, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just a simple mistake.
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