Forty Bins

The compost truck sits in its painted square with the tailgate down. A woman in rubber boots, Lina, swings the first bin off the tailgate, and the bin comes up too fast and the lid pops. She does the next. Forty bins from forty houses, every Tuesday. The scale at the gate has already said the load is right.

She sets one at your feet. On top are coffee grounds and onion skins and the heel of a loaf. You push your hand in, and the top inch comes away in one piece. Under it the bin is empty and clean.

Lina swings down the next one, and the next. She does not say anything. She nods at a shed at the back of the yard, where the route hangs on the wall in pins and yarn.