inspecting IDs and consulting a printed page on the podium in front of him. He extended his sausage fingers to David without a word. David handed over the ID. In the line outside the train, he had scratched the picture mostly off, just as a precaution. “What happened to your badge?” “My dog.” The man half snorted and began searching the list. His face slowly contorted, as if the list had turned into a language he couldn’t read. “I don’t have you down for today.” “That’s what I said when they woke me up this morning. Now if you’re saying I can go, I’m out of here.” David reached for the ID.
