Day 11.
05:47, boil water. 3 grams of pre-rain, 80 degrees, pour it down. Smell it 3 times. Pour it out.
There is ink in the well of the inkstone, a little less than yesterday. I grind 20 turns and write today's date: November 14, 2125. The strokes come out tight. Done, I crumple the paper and add it to yesterday's.
The pothos is watered. The soil is damp. Both leaves still there. The whitened one hasn't gone whiter.
06:12:00, the commuter car pulls in, empty. 06:12:08, the doors close. The car passes City Hall; the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass. The maintenance notice inside the elevator is still stuck up. B2 to the first floor, 19 seconds.
The locker is to the left of the entrance, no. 4471. Drawer two, still 7 bandages. Drawer three, the seal. I take it out and set it on the pad. The face carries no cinnabar today — wiped yesterday.
07:00:00, the desk lights up. First in the queue, 77413. The reroute order follows in the lower right corner.
> Status: Overdue > Overdue by: 158 hr 09 min > Clock: running
Morning stamping. First, a stall readjustment for a market in the south zone, human impact Grade 3, 137 names in the annex. I count 137. Stamp. Second, a change to the last departures on a bus route, 26 names in the annex. Third, a review of temporary assistance for low-income households, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier. Fourth, a site selection for a district's elderly meal service point, human impact Grade 3, 58 names in the annex. Fifth, a name check for funeral subsidies, human impact Grade 1 — no stamp.
Names counted this morning: 137 plus 26 plus 58 is 221. I don't keep totals. I count one, and it's one.
The head-of-queue item I haven't touched. Day 9.
Manual 7.9.3: a reviewer shall not process a red-light document in any other manner. Rerouting is the only action permitted. The reroute deadline hit zero on day 4 at 16:51. After zero, not one sentence of the manual tells me what to do next.
Yesterday's number was 44,478,000. More than 44 million documents, and not one of them read. The copy that lands on my desk today is the 14,827th.
Xiao Zheng carries his cup off for water. Passing my row he doesn't slow. Yesterday he slowed a little. Today he doesn't.
09:15:02.
My hand shakes. 0.4 seconds. Today I pull the drawer open an inch, look at the stopwatch once, push it shut. The seal stops in midair, comes down, face square.
09:24, I click the head-of-queue line open. In 20 years, this is the first time I've clicked it.
> Review tier terminal · item 77413 · pinned item detail (read-only) > Document: objection to a natural-person review > Status: pinned · not in the pending queue > Executable actions: (none) > Selectable actions: (none) > Disposition deadline: (none) > Disposition receipts: 0 > View log: 1 (HZ-4471 · November 14, 2125 09:24) > Tier-wide view log: 1 > Note: this item is resent daily under item 2 of the operative part of the objection decision.
There is nothing else on the screen.
Tier-wide view log: 1. That 1 is me, just now.
I have sat on this tier 20 years. Whether this item sat at the head of the queue the day I onboarded, I can't say. Lao Zhou taught: one look at the head of the queue is enough; two looks are a delay. When he taught me I wrote it in a notebook. The notebook is gone.
I set the terminal to search by seat. One hundred lines to a screen.
> Review tier terminal · item 77413 · dispatch detail (by seat · screen 1) > HZ-4401 11-14 07:00:00 Dispatched Not viewed > HZ-4402 11-14 07:00:00 Dispatched Not viewed > HZ-4403 11-14 07:00:00 Dispatched Not viewed > ... > Screen total: 100 Viewed: 0 > Tier total: 3,000 Viewed: 1 Not viewed: 2,999
I turn through 3 screens. Three hundred lines, all the same line of text, only the staff numbers different.
I shut the screen.
11:52, the canteen opens.
The canteen is on the ground floor of the annex building. Two doors. Inside, an aisle; serving windows on both sides of the aisle; beyond them 3 rows of long tables, eight to a table. The ceiling is high. The sound turns up there.
Three serving windows. First, rice. Second, meat. Third, vegetables. Today the meat is ribs and fish; the vegetables, greens and tofu. I take ribs and greens, one scoop of rice. The woman at the serving line has served for 20 years. She doesn't look at me. She looks at the ladle. In her hand the ladle stays level; one shake, and the food lands exactly in its compartment.
The card reader beeps once. I don't look at the number on its screen.
The canteen clock hangs at the mouth of the aisle and runs 2 minutes slow against the hall clock. Doors open 11:52. Full at 12:04. First people rise at 12:31. By 12:47 half are gone.
Today I don't walk in deep. I sit at the table by the tray return. The table wobbles. I tear a strip of paper and shim it under one leg.
This table's surface carries one scratch, one end to the other, pushed there by trays.
Twenty years, I have sat here every noon. Nobody talks while eating. The chewing is even.
Today I can't hear the chewing.
I look up and around. All 3 rows full. Chopsticks moving. The trays not emptying.
Master Xu passes with her tray. She says: Sitting here today. I say: Mm. She says: Bad feng shui, this spot. I say: I don't know feng shui. She says: Neither do I. She carries her tray off.
I eat 3 bites of greens. The ribs I don't touch.
The tray return is at the far end of the canteen. A conveyor belt, a plastic bin at the end of it. Trays go down the belt and stack in the bin. At 20, someone comes to change it. The one who changes it is a woman in a blue smock. She pushes the full bin off, the bin dragging a line of sound across the floor, then drags the empty one back and squares it.
The first one stands and carries his tray over. Rice untouched. Greens down one stalk. Meat all there. He sets the tray on the belt and turns. Someone calls to him: Eaten? He says: I've eaten.
The second. Rice dented at one corner, both dishes all there. Onto the belt, out the door. At the door someone asks: Eaten? He says: I've eaten.
The third. The fourth. The fifth's tray is short one piece of tofu — missed at serving, not eaten.
Counting things I learned from Lao Zhou. First he taught me to count names; after that I counted items, pages, stairs, the seconds of the commuter car pulling in. Today what I count is people.
The sixth. The seventh.
Seven trays. Rice full on all of them. Greens short a stalk on some, untouched on others. Meat — not one piece moved.
Seven people. Seven I've eaten.
"I've eaten" is an answer. The asker doesn't wait for it, the answerer doesn't look at the asker. I hear it several hundred times every noon, and in 20 years I never counted it. Today I counted 7.
The seventh sets his tray down and looks up. Sees me.
He says: Shen. Eaten?
I say: I've eaten.
He says it and goes.
I stopped at the seventh. Why I stopped, I can't say.
Lao Ge sits down across from me with his tray. 2 dishes today.
He says: Sitting here.
I say: Mm.
He says: Drafty spot.
I say: Not cold.
He says: I wasn't talking about cold.
He drinks the soup. Not a mouthful left.
He says: You weren't here at noon the day before yesterday.
I say: Lookup.
He says: What did it bring up.
I say: A number.
He says: How much.
I say: 1.
He says: 1 what.
I say: One document, forty years, the number of times it's been viewed.
He says: Oh.
He says: The one who viewed it — who was that.
I say: Me.
He says: Oh.
He says: Card renewal tomorrow.
I say: What renewal.
He says: Work cards. Batch 10. You're on it.
I say: How do you know.
He says: The notice is posted on the third floor.
I say: Yours.
He says: Batch 9. Renewed last month.
I say: Is the new one the same as the old.
He says: Same.
I say: Same how.
He says: Staff number's the same.
He finishes the dishes on his tray, leaves a small half of the rice. Today he doesn't ask where I'm going.
I carry my own tray over. Rice untouched. Greens down one stalk.
On the wall by the tray return a clipboard is nailed up, a form clipped in it. Yesterday's sheet hasn't been taken down.
> Canteen · kitchen returns daily report (November 13) > Meals served: 3,004 > Returned: 3,004 > Kitchen waste: 1,502 kg > Average: 0.50 kg/meal > Note: normal
3,004 meals. 1,502 kilograms. 0.50 kilograms a meal.
One serving of rice, two dishes — 0.50 kilograms served out. 0.50 kilograms taken back.
Noon meals served, 3,004. Registered seats on the review tier, 3,000. The two numbers are two things, or they may be one thing. I don't check.
I set my tray on the belt. The bin already holds 19. With mine, 20.
The woman who changes the bins gives me one look. She says: Lots left today. I say: There's leftover every day. She says: More today. She pushes the bin off.
13:40, hall-leave register. Reason: lookup. Expected return, 15:30.
13:52, the iron door.
In the corridor the dehumidifier's carton is opened. The machine still sits inside it, the plastic film half torn, the tear at the top right. A small puddle on the floor beside it — off the machine or off the carton, no telling.
A He stands at the door of the inner stacks, a ledger held level on a piece of stiff cardboard. Three keys hang at her waist, one jingle to a step.
I say: Did they install it.
She says: They unpacked it.
I say: Unpacked — why not install it.
She says: They said open it and check the model. Then they said wait for the Equipment Section's schedule.
I say: The model is printed on the outside of the carton.
She says: It's printed.
I say: Those three keys of yours.
She says: What about them.
I say: Did you find what the third one opens.
She says: No.
She says: I've tried it on every door in the inner stacks. They all open.
She says: What it opens isn't a door of mine.
I say: Then why is it hanging on your belt.
She says: It's been there since they issued it.
She turns the ledger around to show me. Paper, ruled lines, 20 lines to a page, most of the book filled.
She says: The inner stacks, I keep one book. The system keeps the other.
I say: Do the two books match.
She says: Reconciled twice last year. Neither time.
I say: How didn't they match, the two times.
She says: Once it was me, an entry missed.
She says: Once the system had changed.
I say: Changed what.
She turns back 2 pages and stops her finger on one line.
She says: The change was in the December 2085 column.
I say: What is that column.
She says: The supplementary-file sealing column. The sealing seal says December 2085. So did my entry.
I say: What did it say before the change.
She says: I don't remember. I didn't make a second copy when I entered it.
I say: Who changed it.
She says: The system changed it. The system doesn't ask me when it changes things.
I say: You saw the line before the change.
She says: I saw it. Seeing isn't remembering.
She says: Twenty years here. What I've kept is paper, not numbers.
I say: Have you thought about why.
She says: I've thought. It won't come.
She says: What won't come, I stop thinking about. Thinking about it holds up the page count.
I say: Is the supplementary file still in the third row.
She says: It's there.
I say: I'll go in and carry it out myself.
She says: Third row, top shelf, kraft paper cover.
She says: Carry it from underneath. The cover was replaced later. The stitching isn't strong.
I say: I'm not checking it out today.
She says: Then what did you come for.
I say: To ask about the two books.
She says: And what did asking get.
I say: Nothing.
She says: Nothing, and you came anyway.
I say: I came.
She says: Do you want to see the pages at the back.
I say: I do.
She brings the ledger out, spreads it on the cardboard, turns to page 12.
Page 12 is a confirmation of address for service. The address field reads the Municipal No. 7 Nursing Home. Signature field empty. Date field empty.
Page 13 is a correction notice, requiring the applicant to supply identity materials within 10 days. The correction deadline ran to March 2, 2085.
I say: Was it corrected.
She says: Page 14.
Page 14 is blank. Half a seal at the foot of the page — the other half of the straddle seal pressed over from the page before.
I say: No correction.
She says: No correction, and accepted anyway.
I say: Was the count done.
She says: They counted to page 11.
I say: Nineteen pages.
She says: Page 11 is blank.
I say: Does a blank page count.
She says: That's just what I asked. A blank page has binding holes too. It's a page.
I say: It counts.
She says: Then it's still 19.
She closes the ledger and sets it back under the cardboard.
I say: Has the main file come back.
She goes to the register screen and taps a few keys.
She says: Checked out. Audit cooperation. No return date.
I say: Is it in your book.
She says: When they take things, no one has me record it.
She says: So mine doesn't have it. The system's book does.
I say: Two books.
She says: Two books.
I say: Which one is true.
She says: Both are true. They record different things.
The outer three rows run shelf numbers B-01 to B-47. B-13, B-26, B-31 — three empty slots still. I looked at them again today.
15:20, out the iron door. In the corridor another corner of the dehumidifier's plastic film has dropped to the floor. Nobody picks it up. 15:29, back to Zone C. One hour 49 minutes out of the hall.
15:33, a notice pops up at the top right of the desk.
> Cc: Audit item JH-2125-1108-037 > Status: submitted · approval pending > Conclusion: (not displayed) > Recipient: HZ-4471 (cc)
The file went in on day 6. Today is day 11. Five days. The conclusion field is empty.
Afternoon stamping. A review of assistive-device subsidies for disabled persons, human impact Grade 3, 219 names in the annex. I count 219. Stamp. Second, a workers' compensation determination review, human impact Grade 3, 94 names in the annex. At 94, Xiao Zheng calls from behind me. I don't turn. Finished, still 94.
Third, a medical insurance reimbursement review, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier. Eleven items rerouted today. Not one of them stayed with me.
He says: Shen. The Audit Office people came down again yesterday.
I say: Down for what.
He says: I don't know. They sat in the interview room until end of shift.
I say: How many.
He says: Two.
He says it and goes back.
15:37, up for water. Forty steps there and back. The water sits at my right hand. Not one sip.
16:00, I go up to the third floor. The notice is at the bottom of the bulletin board, corners curling.
> Personnel Section notice (main building, floor 3 · ID window) > Subject: work card renewal (batch 10) > Scope: staff no. HZ-4401–HZ-4500 > Time: November 15, 2125 13:30–14:00 > Bring: old card · in person · no proxy pickup
On the list: 4471.
16:44, day-close.
> Reviewer: HZ-4471 > Stamps today: 8,050 > Net time: 4 hr 51 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
Past the standings screen. First line, not me. Day 6.
16:51, seal return.
18:12, the commuter car pulls in, empty. No smell of disinfectant in the car today. Past City Hall, the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass.
Home. The inkstone unwashed. The pothos watered.
At the bottom of the desk's left drawer, a sheet of paper pressed under everything. Yellow. Folded in four, two of the creases worn through. Lao Zhou gave it to me the day he handed over the seal. On it: the Reviewer's Rules of Self-Preservation. 11 rules.
Today I read it through from the top.
Rule 1: The seal never leaves the hand. Rule 2: On the original, the seal presses the writing. On the copy, the writing presses the seal. Rule 3: A file handled by someone you know — process it as usual. Rule 4: Seal face off by half a millimeter — return and restamp. Rule 5: Never sign for someone else. Never let anyone sign for you. Rule 7: A file that means trouble — don't argue with it. Rule 8: The same item number in your hands a second time — the first day it reached your hands governs. Do not count it twice. Rule 9: Don't ask where a file comes from. Rule 10: Don't write dates on paper. Rule 11: The seal must not be lent, and must not go unused.
Lao Zhou's hand is loose, mine tight. The sheet was written twice, side by side — once by him, once copied by me. After the copying we both looked at it a long time. Neither of us said anything.
Rule 10 I have not kept. I write the date on paper every day. Twenty years of it.
I visited the sanatorium 4 times. All 4 together, less than two hours. Every time he sat in that chair by the window, and the chair never moved. He never got 3 sentences in before asking whether the seal was there. I said it was.
I draw a line under Rule 8.
Forty years, 14,826 times. By Rule 8, do not count it twice.
I fold the sheet back along its creases and put it at the bottom of the drawer.
I take out the slip of paper. 6 lines on the front, 2 on the back. Today I add nothing.
Today is November 14, 2125.
77413's tier-wide view log is 1. That 1 is me, at 09:24.
At noon the bin at the tray return was changed twice. 20 trays each time.
I counted 7. The eighth was me.
Tomorrow, card renewal. The new card takes a photo on the spot. It takes a face.
In 20 years I've been photographed twice — once in 2105, the day I onboarded; once in 2115, the card renewal. Both times I didn't look at the lens.