The fluorescent lights overhead hummed a low, irritating note that made my temples throb.

The clerk behind the counter, a woman named Martha with a faded name tag, did not look up from her computer screen when I approached.

She had a stack of manila folders to her left and a half-eaten bran muffin on a paper napkin to her right.

“I need to request the building permit files for twenty-four West Maple Drive,” I said, my voice sounding smaller than I intended.

Martha clicked her mouse twice, very slowly.