21.
"Um, I'm going to need to see some ID."
It wasn't the usual bar (we were here to meet a client), so the bartender, a fairly attractive woman in her twenties, gave Hanna a look as he went to order his drink.
Hanna grumpily handed over the license, looking to me for pity, which he got through my blank stare.
"Twenty-four?" she asked incredulously. "Nice try, kid. But I know a fake when I see one … Hanna? Hah, wherever you got this from, they did a horrible job."
I chuckled lowly in my throat, and Hanna glared at me. "Look, lady, my name really is Hanna. And I really am twenty-four."
Every ounce of the bartender seeped Oh, please, as she gave him the ultimatum to either leave or she'd call the cops. Every once of Hanna seeped ARRGH! as he dared her to, warning that it would just be a waste of everyone's time.
Twenty minutes later, Hanna was smiling triumphantly at the girl as a police officer apologized sincerely to him.
He didn't even reorder his drink.
"Don't you think that was a little over dramatic?" I asked him, out of earshot of the bartender.
He smiled, "Nope. I had to do that at the Rabbit Hole, too. No one ever believes me about my age or name the first time."
There's a stack of flyers for a pizzeria right in front of us. I fold it for him and write Hanna.