An older woman named Mrs.

Miller sat behind a high counter, her desk organized with three separate ink pads and a heavy iron seal.

She looked at my driver’s license, then back at the document Harris handed her.

“Mara Bell,” she read aloud, her voice dry and rhythmic.

“Yes,” I said.

“You are signing this of your own free will, without duress or promise of reward?” she asked.

“I am,” I said.