Staff

The lights go dark once, and then again, and she touches the pencil to the strip. A line draws itself across it, running north while the water runs south. She lifts the strip out by its corners and tapes it into her cap with the others.

Under the bridge a metal plate is screwed to the concrete, a code on it. You hold your phone to it. A list opens, one job to a line.

The auntie who knows which plants actually clean heavy metals. Paid. The bicyclist who patched the leak. Paid. The teen who pulled the scooters before the surge. Paid. The one who shows up at 3 a.m. when no one else does. No name. Paid.

On your screen the last line has a blank beside it, the width of a name. She holds out the grease pencil.