“Name?” his voice was rough and bored. She looked down, paused a moment, readying her thoughts. He was looking at her now. “Name?”
“Abigail,” it had been a while since she had spoken and her voice was softer than she expected.
“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up,” his voice teetered on the edge of annoyance.
“Sorry. Yes. My name is Abigail. Abigail Grey.” The man made a series of marks on his paper. She was cataloged and categorized and an old women who smelled of boiled beets and cigarettes took her photograph. It was somewhere between the click and the bright flash that Abigail decided she didn’t like this place and she resolved to leave. The old woman turned from the machine smiling through crooked teeth.
Abigail was already gone.
Note: Image adapted from City Light employee Mr. McKeen, 1937 by the Seattle Municipal Archives.
