"Name?" the security officer at the front asked, eyes fixed on the person standing before him.
"Katherine Paul," the woman replied.
Her voice was thin, worn down by exhaustion. She stood with her shoulders slightly hunched, as though bracing herself for a blow that had not yet come. The long journey showed on her face—dry lips, dark circles beneath her eyes, and a tension that refused to leave her posture.
"Your pack identification card?" the officer asked.
"I do not have one," the woman replied.
The officer exhaled slowly, not annoyed, not impatient, but clearly accustomed to this response.
"Ma'am," he said, "you'll have to move to the other side."
He lifted his hand and pointed toward another line running parallel to the first.
"I do not understand," the woman said, her brows knitting together. "I'm not lying. I don't have a pack identification card."
"Ma'am, we understand," the officer replied. "But we have pack laws, and we must stick to them."
