We sat for what seemed like hours in the deep mahogany pews of some courtroom on the what was it, sixth floor. Like schoolkids on detention.
We were each assigned a number and urged in the strongest possible terms to memorize it.
"You will be handed a card. Memorize the number on your card."
I received a card and memorized the number.
"Do not forget the number on your card. This number is your number. The number on your card."
I thought about my number. I liked my number. I thought about the number on my card.
My number was 17.
Vaguely I worried: What if that was not the number on my card?
What if the card said 19?
I pried the card out of my pocket, a card just like some business card. Of someone you met at a party or a bar.
It said 17.
I was 17.