Hope walks down the stark hallway. The building was unusually quiet. She finds the sign for the DMV, opens the door, and walks up to the teller. There are no lines.

She says “Hi, my name is Hope and I lost my ID. Can I get a new one?”

The teller looks at the woman named Hope and says, “Sorry, we don’t have any IDs with that name. We have ‘Despair,’ ‘Devastated,’ or ‘We’re All Fucked.’ You pick.”

The woman previously named Hope says, “Are those the only names you have? They are all kind of ugly and gloomy.”

The teller looks at the woman known as Hope on November 4th and says, “Well, We got ‘Misogyny,’ ‘Racist,’ ‘Homophobe,’ ‘Transphobe,’ and here’s a good one. It starts with X but not like the Twitter X, it’s ‘Xenophobe.’ You could call yourself Xena for short.”

The former Hope says, “God, Those are all awful. What else do you have?” she asks, hopefully.

The teller looks at her. The teller’s expression is stoic. “Sure, we got ‘Government Ruling Women’s Bodies,’ ‘White Supremacy,’ or ‘Christian Nationalism.’ You could go by Body, Whitey, Christian, or Chrissy. But that’s all I got. Oh wait, there’s ‘Stripping the Country of its Safety Net.’ You could go by Netty.”

The previously known woman named Hope says “Those are just awful names. Don’t you have something like Sue or Bev or Jennifer?” The teller looks at the woman, sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, honey, All the good names shattered into 70 million pieces all over the floor. I have shard sticking in my feet still, like painful memories of what once was.”

The woman without a name leans her elbows on the counter. “Gee, did it really happen that fast? All gone in 70 million pieces?”

The teller shrugs their shoulders, “Give or take.”

The nameless woman says, “Gee, is there really no Hope?”

The teller shakes their head, “Nah.”

The woman with no ID replies, “Gosh, Those aren’t good names to choose from. Is that all I have to choose from?”

The teller raises an eyebrow. “Lady, you better pick one before the government issues you one. You won’t have a choice soon. Women lose all their rights. They will be controlled by men whether they like it or not. I suggest the name ‘Racist.’ You could call yourself Race. That sounds like a strong man’s name. Strong, manly men with insecurities have all the power now. So just deepen your voice a bit; maybe cut your hair short because the new ruling class has short hair—if you ask me, they really lack flare—and depending on your penmanship, You could try to Macho up your handwriting.”

The woman with no good choices for a name, or anything else for that matter, drops her head into her hands, shaking her head. She says, “How can this be? I had so much Hope in me. These choices are awful. This world you’re describing is horrible.”

The teller shrugs, “Yeah, you’re telling me. Dreams are gone now, too.”

The woman mourning the loss of her name says, “No! Really? Oh, this is terrible, simply terrible.”

The teller says, “Yeah. Well, the people voted, so that’s it. Look, I’m sure this is shocking for you, but I got to get out of here before the passport window closes. So, can you pick a name?”

The unnamed woman replies, “No, No, I can’t. I’ll have to keep looking for my ID. Thank you for your help, and good luck.”

The unnamed woman turns to leave. The teller calls back to her, “They confiscated all Hope IDs. You won’t find it anywhere!”

The woman continues to leave, and the teller shouts, “There is no Hope!”