I sat in the sterile waiting room, clutching an unopened
issue of Popular Mechanics, dread seeping in from all sides. And when the
technician approached with his obligatory dingy clipboard, I knew my worst
fears had been realized.
"Your vehicle failed the smog," he said, dispassionate
enough to border on indifference.
This had never actually happened to me, and I stared at him
blankly for a minute, trying to process exactly what he might mean by that.
