Miller squinted. He didn't pick it up. He just leaned over, his spectacles sliding to the tip of his nose. "Vertical, huh?"
The neon sign of "The Rusty Mug" buzzed like a trapped hornet, casting a jittery crimson glow over Leo’s shoes. He reached into his back pocket and felt the familiar plastic rectangle. It was his twenty-first birthday, but in the eyes of Illinois law, his ID still looked like a teenager’s report card—long, thin, and stubbornly vertical.
The bartender finally pinched the card between two thick fingers, lifting it toward the light. In Illinois, the vertical format was a scarlet letter for the underage, a design meant to save bartenders from doing the math. But the math was right there in bold red text: Under 21 until 04-28-2026.
A few years ago, some spots in Chicago or the suburbs might have turned him away on principle, citing "house policy" to avoid the risk of a sting. But tonight, the bar was quiet, and the date was undeniable.
"Turned twenty-one today," Leo said, his voice cracking just enough to betray him. "Check the 'Under 21 until' date."
"Today’s the twenty-eighth," Miller grunted. He looked at the card, then at Leo’s peach-fuzz chin, then back at the card.