The others watched in stunned silence as Bharath returned with his paper in hand.

  Cami whispered, “No way.”

  Sarah blinked. “Did… Dean salute him?”

  Jorge: “He didn’t salute me.”

  Marisol: “You hit a cone at 30 mph.”

  Tyrel leaned over to Ravi. “Did he just get a license by being normal?”

  Ravi, still wounded, muttered, “Maybe he unlocked the DMV’s good ending.”

  The boys trudged back into the DMV lobby like soldiers returning from very different wars.

  Ravi looked like a man who had been spiritually spped but was still hopeful. Jorge looked like he was building an inner PowerPoint presentation titled Why I’m Right and the DMV Is Wrong. Bharath looked like… a licensed adult.

  Behind them, Mr. Dean handed a sealed envelope to Gail, who barely gnced at it before calling them forward.

  “Results are ready.”

  The girls stood. Tyrel stopped pacing.

  Cami rubbed her hands together. “Okay. Time to collect some victories or broken gss.”

  Gail opened the envelope. Cleared her throat.

  “Ravi: Written test… barely passed. Road test… fail.”

  Ravi’s shoulders sagged.

  “I knew it,” he whispered. “The jogger. It was the jogger.”

  Cami patted his back. “We love a careful king.”

  “I failed without hurting anyone!” he insisted.

  “That’s adorable,” Marisol said. “And legally irrelevant.”

  “Jorge: Written test… zero percent. Road test… fail.”

  The entire room paused.

  “Wait,” Sarah said, “ZERO?”

  Jorge blinked. “Zero? That’s not even mathematically possible. Don’t you get 5 marks just for your name?”

  “You answered incorrectly to every question,” Gail said ftly. “Even the essay prompt.”

  “There was an essay prompt?”

  “No. But you still wrote ‘drift or die’ on the table.”

  Jorge threw his hands up. “This system is a scam. I drove like a legend.”

  “You drove like a possessed blender,” Dean muttered, walking by with a cup of coffee and a thousand-yard stare.

  Cami handed Jorge his results back.

  “I made you a trophy,” she whispered. It was just his failure notice with glitter and a gold star that said Speed Demon with a kissy face.

  “Bharath: Written test… pass by 1 question. Road test… pass. License: granted.”

  Bharath blinked. “Oh. I-really?”

  “Yep,” Gail said. “You’re official now.”

  Marisol whooped. “Mi amor is street-legal!”

  Jorge crossed his arms. “The man panicked over fshing yellow but he gets a license?”

  “He didn’t terrorize the examiner,” Cami reminded him.

  “HE CRIED, CAMILA. I MADE A MARINE CRY.”

  Gail pointed them toward the camera station with the energy of someone sentencing a man to purgatory.

  “Next step: license photo. And I swear to God, if you even think about looking joyful, we’ll retake it until your soul gives up.”

  Bharath stepped up, neatly tucking his shirt, posture straight. He gave a small, polite smile and squared his shoulders with textbook readiness.

  “Uh uh,” Gail snapped, appearing over the divider like a DMV ghost. “Absolutely not.”

  He blinked. “I’m… not allowed to smile?”

  Gail narrowed her eyes. “This ain’t a Bollywood poster. I want your face like you just found out your grandma left you nothing in the will but debt.”

  The photo tech gnced at Gail, then shrugged. “She’s serious. DMV regutions. No joy.”

  Bharath carefully dropped the smile, but his eyes still sparkled faintly. Hope glimmered on his cheekbones.

  Gail stepped closer.

  “Too much light in your eyes. Squint. No-deader.”

  He tried again.

  “Still too human,” Gail muttered. “Think about… standing in line at the post office for three hours, only to realize you’re at the wrong branch.”

  He stared into the void. The twinkle faded.

  “Better.”

  CLICK

  The screen blinked: “Image saved.”

  Bharath stepped away like a man leaving a confessional booth after being spiritually assaulted.

  Jorge squinted at the image. “That’s your license photo?”

  “I look like I just got fired by fax.”

  Ravi tilted his head. “You look like someone told you all dosas are now illegal.”

  Sarah leaned over. “Oh my God, you look like you’re about to confess to a murder just to get the interview over with.”

  Cami snorted. “No, he looks like a Victorian orphan who just found out he’s allergic to hugs.”

  Marisol patted his arm gently. “You’re beautiful. Like a saint in line at the DMV.”

  Bharath blinked. “I was just trying to follow instructions.”

  Gail called from behind the desk. “You did good, sweetheart. That’s the face of a man who knows the American dream is fake.”

  The neon lights of the Waffle House buzzed overhead like judgmental angels. Inside, the air smelled like burnt butter, overworked grills, and existential defeat. A jukebox wheezed out a low-fidelity version of No Scrubs.

  The gang colpsed into the corner booth like survivors of a highly specific war. DMV War.

  Tyrel fgged down the waitress-forty-something, stone-faced, tired eyes, name tag: “Rhonda.”

  He fshed his signature smile. Or what was left of it after Gail.

  “How you doin’, Rhonda?” he said, ying it on thick. “I got some extra syrup you could help me spread-”

  Rhonda cut him off with a deadpan stare. “I’ve been divorced twice. My alimony just expired. You think you got what it takes to break me again?”

  Tyrel wilted. “...Ma’am, I apologize for my previous and current behavior.”

  She grunted. “Respectable. Now what y’all want?”

  They pced their orders like people confessing sins.

  Sarah: Hash browns scattered, smothered, covered. “I need to feel pain with fvor.”

  Marisol: Chocote chip waffle. “This is for the child inside me who just watched her boyfriend die inside.”

  Cami: Cheese eggs, bacon, toast. “Rebuilding my faith through salt.”

  Ravi: “Just coffee. I need to reflect.”

  Jorge: “What’s your greasiest dish?”

  Rhonda: “The Ambunce Omelet.”

  Jorge: “Perfect. Add hot sauce.”

  Bharath: “Do you have anything vegetarian?”

  Rhonda blinked. “...You want a waffle?”

  “Yes, please.”

  As Rhonda walked off, Tyrel slumped forward. “Y’all... I ain’t never been humbled like this. Twice in one day! Even the Wild Stone ain’t helpin’”

  Sarah patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. Gail wasn’t rejecting you. She was rejecting hope itself.”

  “That’s because she’s gonna eat you alive,” Marisol muttered. “But, like, lovingly.”

  Jorge had been quiet until now. Too quiet.

  He stared at the window, eyes stormy, fork clenched in hand like a weapon.

  “You guys… they banned me.”

  Sarah blinked. “From the DMV?”

  “Not just a DMV. All of them. National list. I’m on the wall.”

  Cami choked on her drink. “What, like a wanted poster? That’s HOT mi amor!”. She gave him a passionate kiss but that didn’t mollify him.

  “They printed my photo from the security cam,” Jorge said grimly. “It says: ‘Do Not License. Ever.’”

  Tyrel snorted. “That’s cold.”

  “They’ve decred war on me,” Jorge continued, voice low. “But I will respond. DMV of America… I’m coming for you.”

  Ravi looked up, panicked. “Please don’t start a war with a federal agency.”

  “I’m starting a movement,” Jorge whispered. “Operation: License or Die Trying.”

  “You’re going to die trying,” Bharath said sincerely.

  Their food arrived like divine intervention. Butter glistened. Cheese melted. Waffles steamed like holy relics.

  For one golden moment, the table was filled only with chewing, content sighs, and the clink of forks against dreams.

  Jorge stopped plotting revenge.

  Tyrel stopped checking if Rhonda was gncing at him. (She wasn’t)

  Ravi took actual pleasure in a bite of toast.

  Bharath savored his waffle like it was a sacred offering.

  Cami leaned back. “You know what’s next?”

  “Mid-terms,” Sarah said.

  “Mid-terms,” Marisol confirmed.

  Zara raised her gss of orange juice. “Let’s make fools of ourselves with purpose.”

  They all clinked cups, mugs, and syrup packets.

  Jorge whispered, “But after mid-terms… the DMV will know my name.”

  “No,” everyone said in unison.