Seven

On the seventh floor the kale hangs straight down. Here and there the sweet potato vine has let go of its wire and lies on the floor in the sun.

The drip line runs along the rail. Someone has cut it, cleanly, and wound blue tape around the two ends to hold them together, three turns, pressed flat. The pressure gauge at the end of the run reads normal. You push a finger into the soil under the cut. It is dry to the second knuckle.

A woman kneels at the join with her thumb on the tape, a ring of keys at her belt and ODILE written across the back of her glove in marker. She does not look at you. Gade, she says. You look. Not one turn overlaps another.

On the floor under the kale a single leaf lies face up, the right green. You run a thumbnail down its middle, and it catches on a seam, a thin bead of dried glue. You put it back where it was.

In the yard across the alley a woman is unloading the compost truck.