Tin Snips

Under the end of the footbridge a folding table stands in the light of the lanterns on the water. On it are a stack of paper globes on bamboo ribs, a muffin tin of tea lights, a coffee can of steel number stamps, a mallet, a hole punch, and rinsed cans with the labels soaked off. The man from the root has his shoes on. He holds out a pair of tin snips.

You cut a can open down one side and flatten it across your knee. It springs back. You cut a strip a thumb wide, punch a hole in one end, and rub the corners smooth on the concrete.

A ledger lies open by the tea lights. At the top of the page, underlined once: 1,000. The last number is 247. Next to 040: Tilley, ferns. Next to 113: third oak, gone. Under the numbers one line repeats down the page, a new date each night: 7:14 p.m. 037 answered no one.

You stamp the next number into the strip, one blow to a digit: 248. Under it you letter a line. The man reads it upside down and nods.