Mira brought her emotional support wizard to the DMV because the letter had said, in capital letters, that she needed “ALL REQUIRED DOCUMENTATION,” and Merlinford the Tall was technically documentation. He stood seven feet if you counted the hat, which everyone did because the hat leaned judgmentally over people’s personal space. His robe was deep blue, embroidered with tiny silver constellations that rearranged themselves whenever he disapproved of fluorescent lighting, which was often.

The DMV waiting room smelled like copier toner, wet coats, and the slow death of hope. A toddler screamed at a vending machine. An old man slept with his ticket number clenched in his fist like a final will and testament. Beside Mira’s chair, Merlinford sat upright on a folding stool she had packed in her tote bag, hands folded neatly over his staff, his beard brushed into two elegant curtains.

“Deep breaths, madam,” Merlinford said, in the rich baritone of someone who had once cursed a king and was now trying very hard to be allowed into Target. “In for four, hold for four, exhale the crippling bureaucracy.”

Mira inhaled through her nose and watched number B42 appear on the screen. Her number was H19. Somewhere, buried deep inside her soul, a tiny chair snapped in half.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Merlinford leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You are gripping your birth certificate with the strength of a mountain troll denying tax fraud.”

Mira loosened her fingers. The birth certificate had acquired a thumb-shaped wrinkle. She smoothed it on her knee while Merlinford produced a tiny lint roller from his sleeve and rolled a speck of dust off his robe with the grave dignity of a prize-winning poodle.

The emotional support wizard program had started three years ago, after the government finally admitted that not all anxiety could be solved by apps, weighted blankets, or being told to “just call them.” Wizards, long unemployed after the collapse of curses as a viable industry, retrained quickly. They already knew how to stand silently in corners, stare down enemies, and make ominous weather happen around difficult conversations.

Mira had qualified after crying in a bank lobby because the teller asked if she wanted to “speak to a specialist.” Two weeks later, Merlinford arrived at her apartment in a thunderclap, wearing a harness that said PLEASE DO NOT PET, I AM WORKING. He had bowed, inspected her bookshelf, and immediately alphabetized her teas by emotional purpose.

At the DMV, a woman in a gray cardigan looked over. “Is he allowed in here?”

Merlinford turned his long nose toward her. His eyebrows rose with such ancient disappointment that the cardigan woman physically shrank. “I am licensed, vaccinated against hex fever, and registered with the Department of Practical Enchantments.”

Mira whispered, “Merlinford, friendly.”

He gave a tight smile. “Of course. Good morning, civilian.”

The woman looked away.

“Better,” Mira said.

“I did not turn her into a decorative spoon,” Merlinford said. “Progress should be acknowledged.”

A clerk at window six called, “H19?”

Mira stood too quickly, dropped her folder, and scattered her life across the floor. Bank statement, passport, utility bill, insurance card, one expired coupon for soup, and the emergency grounding worksheet Merlinford made her laminate all slid in different directions. The room watched, because public embarrassment was the only entertainment not requiring a smartphone.

Merlinford rose with a rustle of robes. He tapped his staff once, and the papers floated into a neat stack, sorted by relevance, date, and likelihood of causing administrative suspicion. The soup coupon hovered in front of him for a moment. He sniffed, then banished it into Mira’s tote with a tiny puff of purple smoke.

“No magic at the counter,” the clerk said without looking up.

“It was not magic,” Merlinford said. “It was clerical encouragement.”

The clerk finally looked up. Her expression suggested she had heard every possible excuse, including that one. “Ma’am, is the wizard assisting you with a medical or emotional condition?”

Mira felt the whole room tilt toward her. It was stupid, she knew it was stupid, but the question landed heavy anyway. Merlinford did not speak for her. He simply stood beside her, calm and vertical and faintly glowing around the edges like a lighthouse with opinions.

“Yes,” Mira said. Her voice shook, but it arrived. “He helps me not run away from places where people ask me forms of questions that sound simple but somehow contain traps.”

The clerk blinked. Then, very quietly, she said, “Valid.”

Mira handed over the documents. Merlinford placed one gloved hand lightly on the back of her chair, not touching her, just being there.

The clerk typed for a long time. Mira counted ceiling tiles, then breaths, then the number of charms dangling from Merlinford’s staff. One was shaped like a tiny hydrant, which he insisted was “symbolic of civic infrastructure” and not a joke from the other wizards.

“You’re all set,” the clerk said. “New ID comes in ten business days.”

Mira stared. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Mira walked outside into the bright, ridiculous afternoon feeling like she had slain a dragon, though technically she had only renewed her license. Merlinford followed at her left side, chin high, hat bobbing regally in the breeze. At the curb, he paused, lifted his staff, and produced a single gold star sticker.

“For bravery,” he said.

Mira stuck it on her folder. “Thank you.”

Merlinford sniffed. “Naturally. Now, as your licensed support wizard, I recommend a restorative pastry.”

“That sounds suspiciously like you want a scone.”

“I am very well behaved,” he said, already leading her toward the bakery. “But even the finest companions require treats.”