The letter looked important.
Too important.
Such an envelope that doesn’t shout, but whispers: “I am going to steal your time now.”
Leni held it with two fingers, as if paper could bite.
“From the state?” Jamal asked.
“From the office,” said Leni. “It’s like the state, but without humor.”
Keks watched the scene attentively. Letters usually meant that people became quiet. He didn’t like quietness.
Leni opened the envelope.
“Please appear in person to clarify your status.”
Below: an address. A time. And this sentence that ruined everything:
“Bring all relevant documents with you.”
“Which documents?” Jamal asked.
“All,” said Leni. “Apparently also those I don’t know exist.”
The office was a building that already said from the outside: Time passes slower in here.
Gray walls. Gray people. Gray hope.
A number blinked up.
“B 247.”
Leni looked at her slip. “I am B 312.”
“Then we still have time,” said Jamal. “Maybe you can start a degree during the wait.”
Keks lay down in the middle of the hallway. As if he had decided to criticize the system through passive blockade.
After an hour, it was Leni’s turn.
Behind the desk sat a man with a voice that sounded like it had already made many people very tired.
“So,” he said, clicking through documents, “you work freelance, but actually not properly.”
“I work very properly,” said Leni. “Only I get paid… creatively.”
The man looked up. Not amused.
“You have to decide,” he said. “Either employed or freelance.”
“I would also be open to ‘dignified’,” said Leni.
The man sighed. “We don’t have a field for that.”
He printed something out. Stamped it. Put it aside.
“Come back next week,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because then it might be clear what you are.”
Leni stood up. “And until then?”
“Until then,” said the man, “you are… unclear.”
Outside, Leni took a deep breath. “I love it when my existence status is open.”
“Very flexible,” said Jamal.
On the way back, Leni’s phone vibrated.
“Your profile is being updated. Please be patient.”
Leni stopped. Looked at Jamal. Looked at Keks.
“Today I am not understood by two systems at the same time,” she said. “That feels… consistent.”
At home, the doorbell rang.
A neighbor stood at the door. Mid-fifties. Always slightly annoyed.
“You’re the one with the dog,” he said.
“Yes,” said Leni cautiously.
“It barks sometimes.”
Keks barked once. Short. Polite.
“He expresses political opinions,” said Leni.
The neighbor looked at her confused. “Aha.”
“We’re working on it,” Jamal added. “On everything.”
In the evening they sat at the kitchen table. Paper everywhere. Forms. Notes. Printouts.
“I have the feeling,” said Leni, “I have to prove my poverty to get help – and prove my ability to work to be allowed to work.”
“That’s the perpetual motion machine of bureaucracy,” said Jamal. “It runs. But not for you.”
Keks lay down on a stack of documents.
“No,” said Leni. “Not form 3b.”
Keks stayed lying. Still.
“He’s protesting,” said Jamal.
Leni laughed. Loud. Unexpected.
“You know what?” she said. “If systems treat us as if we were numbers…”
She looked at the dog. At Jamal. At the stack of paper.
“…then maybe it’s okay if we sometimes act like disruptions.”
The phone vibrated.
“Please rate your contact with the authority today.”
Leni stared at the message.
Then she typed.
“Friendly, but out of touch with life. Would not recommend.”
She put the phone away.
Keks snored quietly.
“Bureaucracy,” said Leni, “is like a bad joke.”
“You only understand it too late,” said Jamal.
And somewhere between forms, waiting numbers, and politically barking dogs they understood:
If systems demand patience, they often mean obedience.
But they were tired.
And tired people are surprisingly bad at staying obedient.