15: DMVocalypse

The living room at Sarah’s house looked like it had been looted by a gang of caffeinated raccoons. Cereal bowls balanced precariously on textbooks, open highlighters bled across midterm study sheets, and three half-used lip balms glistened like tiny abandoned candles on the coffee table altar. The TV flickered silently in the background—reruns of Boy Meets World, its earnest white-boy lessons absorbed by no one.

Camila lounged across the couch like a Roman empress after conquest, one bare foot draped over Jorge’s thigh, her toenails gleaming a dangerous shade of crimson. Sarah was curled up in an armchair under a hoodie that still faintly smelled of Bharath’s shampoo. Marisol stood at the kitchen counter, sipping something hot and vaguely herbal from a chipped Georgia Tech mug, observing the scene like a scientist watching primates invent fire.

The fire, in this case, was three boys attempting to make Sunday plans with all the grace of a goat rodeo.

“So let me get this straight,” Sarah said slowly, spoon suspended midair. “None of you have a US driver’s license?”

The boys looked up in sync, like children caught stealing cookie dough.

“I drive,” Bharath said, mildly offended.

“Where?” Marisol asked, eyebrow lifting.

“In Chennai,” Bharath replied. “My Maruti Esteem has a manual transmission, you know. Power windows, Kenwood speaker system. I once overtook a milk truck while avoiding both a pothole and an auto-rickshaw. Very elite maneuvering.”

Jorge groaned. “Why do you always bring up auto-rickshaws?”

“Because they are the daredevils of the road,” Bharath replied, wounded. “You cannot understand the art of survival until you have made eye contact with a man going 80 km/h the wrong way while chewing on tobacco.”

“I absolutely agree,” Ravi piped in, nodding fervently. “Delhi’s the same. They’re like vehicular ninjas.”

Jorge rolled his eyes. “I drove in the Andes, okay? Fog, cliffs, no guardrails. Hairpin turns with my tío screaming at me in Quechua and goats darting across the road like suicidal Pokémon.”

Camila snorted. “And yet, here you are. In Atlanta. With no license. In a country that invented four-way stops.”

“I didn’t need one back home!” Jorge snapped. “And nobody asked for your commentary, mujer diabólica.”

“Gracias!” she chirped.

Sarah finished her cereal and pointed her spoon like a wand. “Ravi?”

Ravi looked up from a Popular Mechanics issue balanced on his knee. “I don’t technically drive, but I fully understand the physics of driving. Torque. Traction. Load distribution. I’ve simulated all of it in my mind.”

Jorge stared at him. “Have you ever been in a car with the steering wheel in front of you?”

“I’ve sat in the front seat many times while my driver drove me around Delhi,” Ravi said defensively. “With dignity.”

Camila cackled and collapsed backward, wiping tears. “Oh my god, this is who we’re sending to the DMV?”

“Actually...” Marisol tilted her head. “Maybe we should send them.”

The room stilled.

Bharath sat up straighter from the floor, his notebook sliding off his stomach. “Wait, you’re serious?”

Sarah smirked. “Why not? We can make weekend plans that take us outside the city right? If you guys pass, we can all go to Stone Mountain or something.”

“And then,” Camila added, fluttering her lashes, “we can rent a van. Something huge. Room for all of us. No more squishing into Tyrel’s truck like it’s a clown car.”

“Free chauffeurs,” Sarah murmured dreamily. “Never carry a grocery bag again.”

“And you,” Marisol said, poking Jorge’s shoulder, “can stop trying to bribe Ravi to get you to Waffle House in a taxi.”

“I don’t bribe him,” Jorge muttered. “We collaborate. Efficiently.”

Tyrel strolled into the room shirtless, towel over one shoulder, body glistening from a post-shower flex-off with himself (he lost). He squinted. “Why do I feel like I just walked into some bullshit?”

All heads turned.

Camila smiled like a politician. “Tyrel, mi amor ... can we borrow your truck for a DMV test for Jorge, Bharath and Ravi?”

“No.”

Sarah leaned forward. “Come on. It’s perfect for the driving test. Classic, sturdy. No mystery buttons. The horn works.”

“And it smells like pine and testosterone,” Camila added.

“No,” Tyrel repeated flatly. “That truck is an extension of my soul. I am not lending it to three clueless disasters with poor hand-eye coordination.”

“But you love us - especially me right?” Sarah cooed.

“I love me. And that truck is me with wheels.”

Camila glanced at Marisol.

Marisol nodded.

Initiate Phase Two of Operation: Get Tyrel to lend them the truck (Name a WIP).

Camila sighed, loud and theatrical. “You know, I just think Sarah would be really impressed by a guy who supports his friends’ dreams.”

Tyrel narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you bring her into this.”

Sarah leaned in conspiratorially. “You know ... I said that guys who let girls borrow their truck are confident and sexy right?”

Tyrel blinked. “You said that?”

“She implied it,” Camila said vaguely.

Marisol sipped her tea. “But hey, if you have to tell her no...”

Tyrel looked like a man betrayed by God, democracy, and the female gaze. “Fine,” he said, slapping the keys onto the coffee table. “You crash her, I crash you.”

A cheer erupted. Ravi actually clapped. Jorge whooped. Bharath, solemn as a monk, raised his palm in a blessing.

“I call shotgun,” Camila declared.

“Why you again?” Jorge groaned.

“Because I’m hot,” she replied. “And a better navigator than you, NotMapQuest.”

Tyrel’s truck sat in the center of the cracked Walmart parking lot like a grumpy old bull—battered, sunburnt, and ready to charge. It was a rust-speckled, dent-riddled ‘78 Ford F-150, painted a color that might’ve once been red but had long since faded into something closer to BBQ trauma. A frayed air freshener shaped like a Georgia peach hung from the rearview mirror like a war medal. The bumper was zip-tied. The tailgate didn’t close. The glove compartment held three unpaid parking tickets, two cassette mixtapes, and one emergency Slim Jim.

It was, as Tyrel described it, “a real man’s truck.”

And it was about to suffer.

The group had taken over a mostly-abandoned corner of the lot, the kind where old carts go to die and teenagers secretly learn to drive. A few faded parking lines struggled under patches of weeds. A dented soda machine blinked sadly in the distance.

Marisol, Sarah, Camila, and Tyrel stood by the curb like a firing squad of spectators. Sarah sipped a 20 oz Mountain Dew. Camila had a camcorder hoisted to her eye like she was filming a war documentary. Tyrel had both hands on his head like he was trying to keep his brain from escaping. Marisol chewed a red Twizzler with the menace of someone who knew they were watching a slow-motion disaster.

Inside the truck, Ravi was sweating buckets.

“Why are we doing this again?” Tyrel asked, his voice the low whimper of a man betrayed by every decision he’d ever made.

“Because,” Marisol said, patting his shoulder like a weary coach, “they’re gonna use this at the DMV tomorrow, and it’s better they crash now where we can film it.”

“Crash?” Tyrel squawked, voice cracking. “You said nothing about crashing!”

Camila leaned around Sarah. “Don’t worry, babe. They’ll only scrape. Gently. Like a kitten trying to murder you.”

Sarah added helpfully, “Think of it as exposure therapy. For you. And your suspension.”

“I should’ve left y’all at home,” Tyrel muttered.

Inside the truck, Ravi sat behind the wheel like it was a NASA control panel. His glasses were fogged. His knees were too high. He couldn’t find the handbrake.

“Where is the—uh—retention lever? The ... clutchy-stick?”

“That’s the brake,” Bharath said from the passenger seat, calm as a monk. “The clutch is on the floor. Third pedal.”

“There are three? Why are there three?! What is this, a foot puzzle?!”

“Welcome to America,” Bharath murmured. “Land of freedom and confusing transmission systems.”

Outside, Camila zoomed the camcorder. “Documenting this for future lawsuits.”

“You’re a menace,” Tyrel hissed. “If my truck dies, you die.”

“Smile for the trauma reel,” Camila cooed.

Ravi finally found the clutch and depressed it. The truck groaned awake like an old man startled from a nap. It coughed. Lurched forward two inches. Then stalled with a mechanical cough.

“Ah!” Ravi yelped, hands flying off the wheel.

“You killed it,” Bharath said.

“Vamanos hermano. Don’t leave the clutch so early! You need to feel the vibe before you release the clutch properly,” advised Jorge

“I startled it,” Ravi insisted, wide-eyed. “It was not ready for my energy.”

Tyrel looked ready to cry. “He murdered my girl in cold neutral.”

“Take a breath,” Marisol said, sliding sunglasses onto her face. “We haven’t even started the chaos yet.”

Ravi took a breath. Started it again. This time, it held.

“Okay. Clutch, gear, gas...”

“Gently,” Bharath warned.

“Si. Con cuidado” said Jorge holding on to the cab

Ravi released the clutch like it insulted his mother or Spock.

The truck lunged forward with the unholy torque of a demon goat. It made a wide, screeching arc, tires protesting in a symphony of fear.

“Ohmygod ... ohmygod ... ohmygod,” Sarah chanted.

“RAVI TURN!” Marisol yelled.

“I AM TURNING!” Ravi screamed back, as the truck performed a deeply unintentional drift around an empty cart corral.

From the curb, Camila whooped. “This is cinema!”

Jorge was screaming, “Asi! Vamonos muchachos!”

Ravi slammed the brakes. The truck stopped with a dramatic shudder, exactly three feet from a rusty pole.

“I DID IT!” he screamed, throwing both hands in the air like he’d just won the Monaco Grand Prix.

Tyrel collapsed onto the curb. “He took that corner at forty. I counted.”

Sarah gently rubbed his shoulder. “Breathe, baby. Let the rage leave your bones.”

Tyrel whimpered. “My bones are screaming.”

“Next!” Marisol barked like a drill sergeant. “Let’s go, Desi Speed Racer!”

Bharath exited the passenger side, sauntered to the driver’s seat, and slid in with the smooth confidence of a man who’d once driven a go-kart in reverse.

He adjusted the mirrors. Re-adjusted the seat. Turned the key with reverence.

“I am ready,” he said.

Sarah raised a brow. “You’ve driven a stick before, right?”

“Of course,” Bharath said. “I once navigated a family of four through Perambur rush hour on a Hero Honda with no brakes.”

“I don’t know what that means and that is not the same thing,” Tyrel muttered.

“It’s better!” claimed Bharath.

“Drive like it’s America,” Camila warned. “Not Mad Max: Tamil Nadu.”

The truck started. Smoothly.

And then, Bharath made a beautiful left turn ... directly onto the wrong side of the lot.

“WRONG SIDE!” Sarah yelled, pointing like she was spotting a meteor.

“I am strategizing,” Bharath called back. “Wide arc! Tactical position! I am visualizing space!”

“You’re visualizing DEATH,” Tyrel yelled. “Get to the RIGHT!”

“I am on the right. That’s why I know I’m right,” Bharath insisted calmly. “It’s just not your right, Right?”

Ravi nodded sagely.

He continued his loop, a perfect mirror of what American driving should look like. His hands were at ten and two. His gear shifts were buttery. He even signaled.

To nobody.

“You’re doing great,” Ravi called encouragingly.

“That was the most boring ride I’ve ever been on,” ridiculed Jorge. “Who are we driving? Your grandmother? Miss Daisy?”

“He’s doing great on the wrong continent,” Marisol muttered.

He returned to the original position and parked with a gentle tap of the brake.

Perfect.

Except it was still the left side.

“Your truck has achieved enlightenment,” Bharath said, stepping out.

“You have achieved illegal maneuvering,” Tyrel groaned.

“You drove with symmetry,” Camila admitted, lowering her camera. “Which is impressive. And terrifying.”

“I could not see any hydrant threats,” Bharath added.

“Because you almost kissed it,” Sarah replied.

Ravi gave him a fist bump. “You’re my hero.”

Then came Jorge.

Jorge jumped out of the cab and toward the driver’s seat like he was about to ride a mechanical bull at a frat party.

“Witness me!,” he said, finger guns blazing.

“No,” Tyrel replied instantly. “No, we are not.”

“Too late, mi gente!” Jorge yelled, jumping into the truck with both feet like an action hero who didn’t know the budget was fake.

He didn’t adjust anything. He didn’t even buckle.

He just cranked the engine and cranked the radio louder.

Tyrel recognized the reggaeton beat and screamed. “OH HELL NO—TURN THAT DOWN—”

“VÁMONOS MUCHACHOS!” Jorge bellowed, flooring the gas.

The truck screeched out like a demon unleashed. The tires squealed. A seagull flew overhead in sheer panic. Jorge spun the wheel and performed a literal donut.

“Oh no,” Tyrel muttered. “Why did I say yes to this? Why?”

“Because we manipulated you,” Camila said sweetly. “Now hush.”

Jorge floored the gas and peeled out so hard the tires squealed.

“Oh my god!” Sarah shrieked. “HE’S DRIFTING!”

“I’M GOING TO DIE!” yelled both Bharath and Ravi, holding each other petrified in the truck.

“STOP HIM!” Tyrel roared.

“I CAN’T! I’M FILMING!” Camila shouted, gleefully zooming in.

“JORGE! YOU MANIAC! THAT’S MY MAN WITH YOU IN THE TRUCK!” Marisol screamed.

Jorge did a victory lap around a cart corral and waved at them through the window like he was in a parade. “CALMATE! I GOT THIS BITCHES!”

“You are going to explode this truck!” Tyrel screamed, sprinting toward him.

Jorge hit the brake. The truck fishtailed, spun ninety degrees, and came to a stop facing the exact wrong direction—but somehow didn’t hit anything.

Silence.

Camila’s jaw dropped. “He stuck the landing.”

“WORSHIP ME! I AM A GOD!” Jorge yelled, leaping out.

“YOU’RE A MENACE!” Marisol shrieked, slapping him upside the head.

“I was testing torque under field conditions,” Jorge grinned.

Bharath and Ravi got out of the cab and kissed the ground.

“You were auditioning for death,” Sarah added.

Tyrel knelt in the grass, staring at the truck. “She’s hurt. I can feel it. She’s whispering to me.”

Tyrel staggered forward like a man who’d aged a decade in twelve minutes. “You ... demon. Black Jesus, save me! You put my girl through G-forces dawg. I should have you arrested!”

Sarah had to physically restrain him.

“Let it go, babe. Let it go.”

“I need a priest. I need a mechanic-priest.”

“She’s whispering, ‘Get insurance,’” Camila added.

Ravi timidly raised a hand. “So ... how’d I do?”

“You drove like a panicked goat with GPS,” Tyrel muttered.

Bharath gave a solemn nod. “But you didn’t kill anyone.”

Jorge did a spin. “I drove like the devil. Without the horns.”

“You’re all going to jail,” Tyrel said flatly. “The DMV is going to look at y’all and just evict you from the state.”

Bharath dusted off his hands. “Well. I think we are prepared.”

“You’re prepared to die,” Tyrel snapped. “Not drive.”

Ravi raised a timid hand. “I did manage to ... move.”

“You orbit-bounced off a shopping cart rail,” Camila said.

Marisol crossed her arms. “We’re going to the DMV with this?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, too brightly. “Because what could possibly go wrong?”

Tyrel dropped to his knees in the gravel.

“Black Jesus help me! Y’all pray for my truck. And my therapy bill.”

Sarah clapped. “This was perfect. Now we go tomorrow and let the real circus begin!”

Camila gave the camcorder a final zoom on Tyrel’s face.

“Scene one,” she whispered. “Pre-trauma. Before the DMV.”

The moment they stepped through the sliding glass doors, the entire group went silent.

It wasn’t just the smell—something between carpet glue, coffee gone wrong, and crushed hope—it was the aura of the place. That dull, institutional fluorescence. The grim shuffle of the damned. A toddler sobbed somewhere near a broken photo booth. An elderly man stared into space like he’d seen too much. Someone coughed in Morse code.

It was a Thursday afternoon.

The DMV radiated a single unifying message: You will not leave happy. We guarantee it!

The gang walked in together, squinting under the fluorescent lighting like time travelers arriving from a better dimension. Marisol already had her clipboard. Camila held a pencil like a prison shiv. Sarah cracked her knuckles.

The boys?

The boys were staring around like they’d just walked into a dystopia.

“Okay,” Bharath said slowly, scanning the linoleum wasteland. “Where’s the broker?”

Sarah turned around mid-stride. “The what?”

“The broker,” he repeated. “The agent. The fixer. The guy who takes a small fee and magically ... makes you not stand in line.”

Jorge nodded, eyes narrowing like a mafia don remembering home. “Yeah, the facilitator. The man who knows people.”

Ravi leaned in, whispering like they were planning a heist. “You just tell him what you want, he slides your papers under a stack, adds a stamp, and boom—no lines. It’s very professional.”

Sarah looked at them like they were speaking dolphin.

“Guys. This is the Georgia DMV. Not the DMV of Corruption Land.”

“Or Bolivian,” Camila added, arms crossed. “You’re not paying your way into a license here.”

Bharath blinked. “Wait. So you just ... stand here? Like a—like a—peasant?”

Camila rolled her eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. You stand. Like the rest of us.”

“But surely,” Ravi said, clutching his folder of documents like a baby blanket, “there is an expedited lane? Priority access? Some velvet rope situation? In India we can get expedited service.”

“Expedited?” Camila scoffed. “That’s adorable. You think this is Jet Airways?”

Jorge shook his head, scandalized. “This whole place got no respect. Back in La Paz? My cousin Pablo could send one guy with an envelope, two cigars, and a wink, and we’d get ten driver’s licenses, a passport, and a license to open a zoo.”

“ ... A zoo?” Marisol said.

“He wanted a jaguar. Long story.”

Tyrel stared. “You criminals!”

“It’s not criminal,” Bharath argued. “It’s... efficient. Time is money.”

Ravi nodded enthusiastically. “This system is wasteful. We could be using this time for personal development. Or hookah. Or brunch.”

Jorge snapped his fingers. “That’s it! We open a premium concierge DMV service. Pay extra, skip the line. License But Luxe™.”

“White-glove paperwork service,” Bharath added. “We roll out a red carpet. Offer snacks and drinks. Ravi wears a tux. Jorge wears a gold chain. We give you options.”

“Five stars in the Yellow Pages,” Ravi said. “Every license comes laminated and scented.”

Tyrel leaned in. “Y’all are gonna die poor.”

“I can literally get my driver’s license printed on edible chocolate paper in India,” Bharath muttered. “This place has clipboards. Clipboards, Tyrel. Like we’re in the 1800s.”

“Where’s the fingerprint scan?” Ravi asked. “Where’s the cafe to serve us while we wait for our licenses? Where is the entertainment?”

“There’s a vending machine with expired Twinkies,” Sarah offered.

Jorge clutched his chest. “We’ve entered the Stone Age.”

“No no,” Bharath said gravely, “even the Stone Age had lines that moved.”

Camila gestured toward the front desk, where a woman named Gail was silently judging everyone from behind bulletproof plexiglass.

“Y’all wanna go ask Gail if she takes bribes?”

There was a pause.

Ravi turned to Bharath.

Bharath turned to Jorge.

Jorge cracked his knuckles. “I mean ... I could try. Back home I once got a parking permit, a fishing license, and a building permit for a shack I didn’t own just by sending my uncle’s driver to talk to this one guy who had—how you say—connections. I can make a call.”

Sarah snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“We’re helping the economy,” Ravi argued. “This is trickle-down bureaucracy.”

“Trickle-down yo ass,” Tyrel said. “You try slipping a twenty here, and they’re gonna slap you with community service and a ‘sassy’ write-up on your permanent record.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Bharath muttered. “But it sounds like racism.”

“Can we focus?” Marisol said. “You’re holding up the line.”

“Line?” Bharath looked around. “There’s no line. There’s just ... human soup.”

They turned. The number being served? 32.

Their ticket? 97.

Ravi gasped. “That’s like a whole semester of wait time!”

Camila leaned in. “Welcome to America, mi amigo.”

“This would never happen in Bolivia,” Jorge muttered. “In Bolivia, I could call my cousin right now and he’d send a guy named Hector to make a deal no one could refuse.”

“Please don’t threaten the DMV,” Sarah said tiredly.

“No no, not like that. Hector’s a good guy. He just has ... persuasive tone.”

“You mean a gun?”

“Tone, Sarah. It’s all about tone. Like Joey says ‘How you doin’ in Friends.”

Marisol groaned. “Please. Just fill out your forms like normal people.”

Ravi held his clipboard like it was a betrayal. “This is barbaric. Look at this pen. It’s chained to the desk. Like a criminal.”

“Because people steal them,” Camila said.

“Who steals a pen?!”

“People at the DMV,” Sarah said. “It’s where hope goes to die and pens go to vanish.”

Jorge leaned back and whispered to Bharath, “I give this place two weeks before we take over.”

Bharath nodded solemnly. “Start-up idea number seventy-three: DMV, but for the one percent.”

They high-fived. Ravi tried to join and missed.

Tyrel watched all three of them and sighed. “Y’all ain’t gettin’ licenses. You gettin’ mugshots.”

The gang had been at the DMV for over an hour, and it was beginning to show.

Bharath was slumped in his seat, reading the Georgia Driver’s Handbook for the tenth time like it was a cursed scripture. Jorge had flipped his booklet upside down and was pretending to read it in reverse like a demonic spellbook. Ravi was highlighting every instance of the word “yield” and mumbling to himself about policy contradictions.

Sarah checked her watch. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

Camila let her head fall dramatically into Marisol’s lap. “We are too hot for this.”

“You’d think someone would have noticed by now,” Sarah muttered.

“They always notice,” Camila said confidently. “We just haven’t deployed yet.”

Marisol straightened. “You’re right. We’ve been sitting here like normies. It’s time to unleash the charm offensive.”

Gail was a middle-aged Black woman with a high bun, long nails, and a stare so sharp it could split atoms. She sat at Window B like a DMV goddess of war, typing slowly, unimpressed by the world and everyone in it.

Sarah approached first, all smiles and flutter lashes.

“Hi there,” she said sweetly. “I was just wondering if there’s any way to, you know, expedite the process a little?”

Gail didn’t look up.

“I mean,” Sarah continued, “we’ve been waiting for a while, and my friends are very cute and very nervous.”

Still no eye contact. Just the rhythmic tap-tap of Gail’s acrylics on the keyboard.

“We could fill out some of the forms in advance, or maybe—”

“Is it your turn yet?”

“No, I mean—”

“Take a seat,” Gail said without looking up.

“Oh, I—”

“Now.”

“But I’m blonde and pretty...” Sarah slunk back to the group like a rejected Disney princess.

Camila was already rising. “Okay. She’s not immune to Latina charm. Nobody is.”

She strode to the counter, leaned one elbow against the ledge, and smiled with enough wattage to power a small toaster.

“Hola, reina,” she said. “You are looking fierce today.”

Gail didn’t blink.

Camila switched to full Spanglish. “My boys are muy nerviosos. You think we can just move up the process? Just a little bit?”

Gail clicked something on her screen.

Camila leaned in and stage-whispered, “You and me, we both know these boys ain’t got the patience for this.”

Gail finally looked up.

Deadpan.

“Do I look like I care?”

Camila withered.

Marisol stood up. “Okay. Everyone move. I’m going full First Daughter of Atlanta.”

She approached, hair perfect, posture regal.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am,” she said politely. “Is there any possibility we could get an estimate for wait time? My cousin Jorge has ... a medical issue.”

Jorge from the bench: “I do?”

“Yes. Your condition. With patience.”

Gail exhaled through her nose.

“That’s wild,” she said flatly. “Take a seat.”

Marisol returned to the group blinking. “I have ... never been spoken to like that.”

“Me neither,” Sarah said, stunned.

“She’s immune,” Camila whispered.

Tyrel, grinning like a man with a mission, stood up and adjusted his shirt to show his biceps.

“You amateurs. That there is a Southern woman. She don’t care about your fluttering lashes or your little bilingual power stance.”

“Oh, and you know what to do?” Sarah challenged.

He winked. “Watch and learn, ladies.”

He strolled up to the counter with maximum country swagger.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said with syrupy smoothness. “Gail, ain’t it? You’ve got the kind of poise that makes this whole room look brighter.”

Gail glanced at him.

Silence.

“You from around here?” he continued. “Cause you got that sweet Georgia steel in you. Strong, warm—”

“You done?” she said.

Tyrel blinked. “I mean, I just figured, woman of your strength, maybe you could help expedite a few forms—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, sugar,” Gail said, cold as a glacier in January. “This face don’t soften for flattery, and this keyboard don’t type any faster for compliments. Not even from Denzel or Tyrese. Now take yo’ fake charming ass and sit down before I revoke your existence.”

Tyrel froze.

The room froze.

Even the fluorescent lights dimmed a little out of respect.

Tyrel backed away slowly. “Yes, ma’am.”

He sat down with a thud, eyes wide.

“I saw my whole life flash before my eyes,” he whispered.

Ravi patted his shoulder. “You okay, bro?”

“She... soul checked me.”

Jorge, Bharath and Ravi were falling over laughing seeing the girls and Tyrel strike out against Fort Gail.

Jorge leaned toward Ravi and Bharath.

“You know what I’m thinking?”

Ravi nodded. “This sort of pain is billable.”

Bharath grinned. “License but Luxe. Add-on tier: DMV negotiation and form-filling concierge.”

“Premium pricing for Gail-level resistance,” Ravi added.

“Triple charge if someone tries to flirt,” Bharath said. “We pass the trauma surcharge on.”

Jorge opened his booklet again. “Alright. Back to Question 17. What does a flashing yellow light mean?”

Ravi and Bharath: “We still don’t know.”

The boys were escorted into the Written Test Room by Ms. Jenkins, a woman whose energy screamed mandatory training video and zero bullshit. She wore orthopedic shoes, a lanyard with keys that jingled like doom, and a floral top that somehow looked angry.

“No talking. No phones. No notes. Twenty-five minutes. One shot,” she recited like scripture.

Jorge saluted her.

She did not react.

Jorge, Ravi, and Bharath sat in a row of identical cubicles, each staring at a glowing touchscreen like it was a cursed prophecy. The DMV’s blue-gray lighting made everyone look 12% more defeated.

The room was silent except for the hum of the printer, the tick of the wall clock, and the distant mechanical cough of a dying vending machine.

“Begin test,” flashed on each of their screens.

The moment they tapped it, the madness began.

Question 1:
When approaching a stop sign, you must...{br}

A) Stop completely at the line
B) Slow down and proceed if clear
C) Honk twice and roll through
D) Wait for divine intervention