On the way to the welfare office for the first time in five years, the last bit of change in my pocket jingling. A small line awaits the attention of workers behind bulletproof glass. I take my place behind a young man explaining why he can’t work, and why does he need a doctor to prove that he can’t? The woman is pleased that I have filled out the forms correctly, and don’t need an explanation for any of the questions. She gives me an appointment for the orientation the next day, and another to talk to my worker next week. I get out of there just in time for my bus transfer to get me home before the time runs out.