The Far Bench

The ladder is bolted inside a shaft behind the loading dock. At the bottom a tunnel runs west under Cesar Chavez. Steam lines sweat along the ceiling and the air is warm. Loops of LED tape hang from the pipes, and sheets of copper mesh are strung between them. The black cable comes down the shaft with you and runs along the wall until it ends in a clamp on the nearest sheet.

The benches are library carrels, each with its reading lamp still bolted on. Past the last loop of tape the far bench is dark, and at it Mireya sits wearing a headlamp, bent over a jar. She does not look up. Stand there, she says. She turns her head to the wall, and the headlamp goes with it.

The bench goes dim. In the jar a green light swells and fades, slow and even, about as often as you breathe. She has taken the light out of lightning bugs and set it in gel.