He knew the validity period.

He knew which judge was quick and which one made a speech.

Nobody in that queue ever looked at him.

Not in the way people look at each other.

They looked at his hands and at the paper.

And then, twice or three times a month for three decades, the machine would fail — two people would arrive with nobody — and he would get up from his desk and walk down the corridor and stand in a room and become, for ninety seconds, part of somebody’s day.

And then he would sign it and go back to his desk.