The room had fluorescent lights and uncomfortable chairs.

A clerk mispronounced one name.

People shuffled paper.

Accountability looked nothing like a movie.

Chloe turned once and saw me.

For a moment I remembered her at age nine, following me through our father’s garage, asking me to teach her how to fix a bicycle chain.

The memory hurt.

The woman in front of me was responsible for choices the little girl had not yet imagined, but both versions belonged to the same person.