She looks at me more closely. I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. A streak of sunlight paints the table.

"My name is Lydia," she says. "I can give you the address of the chief. That's the guy you need to talk to."

I have so many questions—does this happen a lot, people wandering in and asking this? Is the chief nice? Is there a test?

I hope there isn't a test. How do you pass such a thing? A barometer for miserable? A measure of depression? The shadows under my eyes all winter?

She scribbles an address on a scrap of paper, and comes around the counter with it. I shake her hand, and she takes my plate as I stare at this magical writing.

"Go to the end of the road and take a left."