Six o'clock in the morning.
The plaza in front of Pittsburgh City Hall.
This place was once a sea of protesters, a battlefield shrouded in tear gas.
But today, the atmosphere had completely changed.
The sun hadn't fully risen, yet a long line had already formed in the plaza.
The line snaked its way from the main entrance of City Hall all the way to Sixth Avenue, three blocks away.
People clutched their driver's licenses, Union membership cards, or tax records from the last three months.
They were here to pick something up.
The first-floor lobby of City Hall had been converted into a temporary distribution center.
A dozen service windows were all open, operating with extreme efficiency.
A steelworker with a stubbled face walked up to a window and handed over his documents.
A staff member verified his information and typed a few keystrokes on the computer.
BEEP.
A brand-new, hard plastic card was handed out.
It was a deep red card.
