When a detective in Montreal ran his thumb over the raised lettering of a confiscated driver's license, he paused. The plastic had the exact elasticity of official government-issued polymer, cooling slightly against his skin. It was not the clumsy laminate of a high school student trying to buy beer, but a masterpiece of illicit bureaucracy.
Behind the closed doors of an apartment in the city, an elaborate workshop had been quietly operating. It was a factory of manufactured selves, producing passports, residency cards, and health insurance credentials capable of bypassing