An FBI number.  Eight of us piled into the federally owned van and rode 35 miles.  We unloaded and trudged into the Rockport city lockup.  The cold stark entry way afforded only an unmanned window and a push-button call box.  The blue uniformed officer pressed my fingertips one by one to the ink pad then a fingerprint card.  It was a bit creepy.  It was all in the name of a background check to work at a national Refuge.  It seems bit overkill; but, hey what do I know?  Anyway, Kent and I are “in the system”.