The Second Flash

Rule one: Read the instructions before inserting payment. The directive is printed in bold black type on a laminated card taped to the wall of the vestibule. The vestibule is located on the sub-basement level of the Department of Civic Compliance, a room tiled in grey hexagons that absorb the sound of footsteps. I stood before the machine for several minutes, examining the card. The lamination has peeled at the bottom left corner, revealing a sliver of yellowed paper underneath. The text is typewritten, the ink uneven in places, suggesting a ribbon that needed changing years ago. I read the rule three times to ensure I had internalized it completely. My new employment contract at the archives requires a valid form of photo identification, and my previous license had expired three days ago. I am precise in these matters. I do not like to be found in error. The machine hums, a low-frequency vibration that travels through the soles of my shoes. The air here smells of ozone and heated dust, a dry, electrical scent that clings to the back of the throat. I adjusted my collar. I checked my reflection in the dark glass of the booth’s window. The glass was streaked with vertical lines, as if someone had dragged wet fingers down it while trying to find a way out. I looked away from the glass and focused on the coin slot. It was a narrow, rectangular aperture, dark and unyielding. Beside it was a small, brushed-metal tray. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the required fee. My fingers brushed against the smooth, cold metal of the coins. I placed them on the tray, aligning them perfectly with the edges. The machine did not react. I waited. I counted to ten. I picked up the first coin, a foreign piece of currency I had found in a drawer years ago, and slotted it into the machine. It slid in without resistance, disappearing into the mechanical dark. The machine whirred, a high-pitched sound of gears meshing against grit. The light above the curtain flickered once, a stutter of white fluorescence. The silence returned, heavier than before. I took a breath and inserted the second coin. It was a molar, a wisdom tooth I had kept in a small velvet pouch since my extraction seven years ago. The root was dry and brittle against my thumb. I pushed it into the slot. There was a wet crunch as the mechanism accepted it. The shutter inside the machine clicked open. I stepped toward the heavy velvet curtain. It was a deep, bruised purple, frayed at the hem where it brushed the floor. I lifted the fabric. The smell hit me immediately—the warm, sour odor of many other people’s breath, recycled and trapped in a small space. I hesitated. Rule one had been satisfied. The payment was rendered. I ducked my head and entered the booth.

Rule two: Sit upright and center your eyes on the black dot. The bench inside is upholstered in a cracked vinyl that sticks to the skin of my thighs through my trousers. I sat down. The space is narrower than it appeared from the outside, the walls closing in on either side of my shoulders. The black dot is a decal applied directly to the background screen, a circle of matte paint on a glossy surface. I leaned forward. My reflection in the mirror showed a man of thirty-four, pale and tired. I smoothed my hair back. I aligned my left eye with the dot. The vinyl squeaked as I shifted my weight. To my right, on the narrow bench, sat a wallet. It was a brown leather bi-fold, worn at the seams, the leather softened by years of friction against a hip pocket. I had not noticed it when I entered. I looked at the curtain, expecting someone to reach in and claim it, but the fabric remained still. The vestibule outside was silent. I looked back at the wallet. It lay exactly where one’s hand would rest if they were sitting in this position. I did not touch it. I am not a thief. I am a clerk. I deal in records, in the organization of other people’s data into coherent systems. Leaving something behind is a failure of protocol. I looked at the floor of the booth, searching for debris or footprints, but the metal floor was clean, scuffed only by the shuffle of shoes. I waited. The machine made a ticking sound, like a cooling engine. The wallet sat there, an intrusion of disorder in a regulated space. I reached out, intending only to push it aside so I could place my own hands on my knees. My fingers brushed the leather. It was warm, as if it had been held