"Happy birthday. November twenty-third—I meant it."
Kristina closed the folder with two fingers. The paper inside was thin and gray, the kind you saw in courthouses and hospital lobbies. Her thumb left a print on the edge.
"Good," she said.
There was a clerk at the counter. He said, "Sign here, and here," in a voice that practiced neutrality for a living.
Kristina signed. Blake signed. Neither of them smiled.
"Next," the clerk said. He slid a small stamp across the desk. The stamp landed with a dull thud.
"Take this," Blake said. He pushed a thin navy booklet toward her. It was the official copy, the page with their names stamped and the date printed. He did not look at the stamp. He did not look at her hands.
Kristina picked up the book. The paper was a little too bright under the fluorescent lights. Her fingers found the crease where his thumb had been.
"Do you want me to—" the clerk started.
"No," Blake said. "She's fine."
"All right then." The clerk stamped again and handed them each a receipt. "That will be fifty."
Kristina fumbled in her bag. Blake slid a small bill across the counter, not meeting her eyes. He walked out before the clerk finished reciting the hours of operation.
Outside, the wind pushed at Kristina's coat. A woman with a stroller clogged the doorway. Someone laughed on a phone. Blake's silhouette retreated down the steps, his collar turned up
