Day 14.
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. Twenty turns. I write today's date: November 17, 2125. The strokes come out tight. Done, I crumple the paper and press it under the paperweight.
The pothos is watered. The soil is damp. Both leaves still there.
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. 99.9997, with the water meter and the power meter beside it. B2 to the first floor, 19 seconds.
The locker is to the left of the entrance, no. 4471. Drawer two, 7 bandages. Drawer three, the seal.
On the pad there is one round mark, a size smaller than the seal face, pressed there by the seal. Twenty years of pressing, pressed into the rubber. Set the seal on it and it falls exactly into the circle.
Deep in the drawer, a stopwatch. Plastic shell, a chip out of one edge. Ten years it has sat there; the battery never changed. Today I took it out and set it to the right of the seal pad, against the table edge.
The new card pins at the left breast. The pin tight. From the locker room to Zone C I pressed it 3 times.
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: 230 hr 09 min > Clock: running
The head-of-queue item I haven't touched. Day 12. Today it resends for the 14,830th time.
Morning stamping. First, a property-fee subsidy check for a resettlement housing estate, human impact Grade 3, 218 names in the annex. I count 218. Stamp. Second, a school bus route change at a primary school, 41 names in the annex. Third, a medical assistance review, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier. Fourth, an issue list for assistive devices for disabled persons, human impact Grade 3, 764 names in the annex. I count 764. Fifth, a review of temporary assistance for low-income households, human impact Grade 2 — no stamp, to the execution tier.
Names counted this morning: 218, 41, 764. I don't keep totals. I count one, and it's one.
The head-of-queue item sits pinned at the top of the screen, unmoving. The first thing 20 years taught me: the line waits for no one. The second: one look at the head of the queue is enough. Today I took 2.
09:15:02.
My hand shakes.
I click the stopwatch.
Start: 09:15:02.0. Stop: 09:15:02.4. 0.4 seconds. The seal stops in midair, comes down, face square.
I stop the watch, look once, reset it to zero. The number is 0.40.
In 20 years, the first time I have clocked it. Before, all I knew was that there was a pause, its length estimated, and the estimate was 0.4 seconds. Today it is not an estimate.
Item in hand: 3,048.
10:19, the tube overhead in row 14 of Zone C has been humming. Three days of it. Today 2 men come, one to hold the ladder, one to go up.
The one up top unscrews the old tube and holds it up for a look.
I say: It flickers.
He says: What.
I say: That tube. Flickering 3 days.
He says: These tubes don't flicker.
I say: To me it flickered.
He says: To me it didn't.
He looks down at me from the ladder.
He says: What number are you to say flicker.
I say: I don't know.
He says: The repair ticket says flicker.
I say: I reported it.
He says: You reported it and left the staff number off.
I say: Forgot.
He says: With the number they can find whoever.
He seats the new tube, gives it half a turn. Light. The ballast stops humming.
Printed on the tube: T8-36W/865.
He comes down the ladder, clips the ticket to his board, hands it to me.
> Facility repair ticket (Head Office logistics · third copy) > Location: Zone C · lighting · row 14 > Reported: October 19, 2125 > Accepted: November 17, 2125 > Fault: ballast noise · flicker > Action: one tube replaced · one ballast > Reported by: (staff no. not filled in) > Completion signature: HZ-4471 (proxy signature)
What I signed is my number.
Putting the pen away, he says: And now.
I say: Not flickering.
He says: It wasn't flickering before either.
He says: Four thousand of these tubes a year.
The one holding the ladder never speaks. The tube changed, he folds the ladder — two tries before it closes. Passing my row he looks up once at the ceiling, then once at me. He doesn't stop.
They go. The ladder's feet leave 2 scuff marks on the tiles.
I look up at the new tube once. Lit. No flicker to see.
The old tube goes out clamped under his arm, black at both ends. That tube flickered 3 days, 100 times a second. I counted. One hundred. Not once off. The one who held the ladder stood under it the whole time, looking up a long while, saying nothing.
11:52, the canteen opens. Today the meat is chicken and fish; the vegetables, cabbage and bean sprouts. I take cabbage and bean sprouts, one scoop of rice. The card reader beeps once.
The canteen clock hangs at the mouth of the aisle, 2 minutes slow against the hall clock. Twenty years I've said that sentence. Today is the first time I go and check it.
Lao Ge sits down across from me with his tray. 2 dishes today.
He says: You paused today.
I say: When.
He says: 10:19.
I say: You saw it.
He says: I can't see anything.
He drinks the soup. Not a mouthful left.
I say: How long was the pause.
He says: Couldn't say.
He says: Less than half a second.
I say: You can count half a second.
He says: I can't count it.
He says: I can see that you paused. That you paused and how long are two things.
I say: They are two things.
He says: That pause of yours. Every day it's there.
I say: How many years.
He says: I don't know how many years.
He says: Three rows back and diagonal, I've watched 11 years.
I eat 2 bites of cabbage.
He says: Have you ever clocked it.
I say: Today I did.
He says: How much.
I say: 0.4.
He says: Clocked by stopwatch.
I say: Stopwatch.
He says: Once it's clocked, it stops being a fault.
I say: What is it, then.
He says: It counts.
He says nothing more, finishes the dishes on his tray, leaves a small half of the rice.
I say: Lao Ge.
He says: Mm.
I say: What day is your physical.
He says: When the notice comes, I go.
I say: What day was it last year.
He says: November, last year.
He says: They tell me to hold out my arm, I hold out my arm.
He picks up his tray and goes. Halfway off, turning his head: Stop clocking it.
I say: What.
He says: I meant me.
Xiao Zheng comes over with his cup, stands at the far end of the table. Doesn't sit.
He says: Shen. Tube's changed.
I say: Changed.
He says: I couldn't see any flicker at all.
I say: Mm.
He says: You've got good eyes.
I say: It's not the eyes.
He says: Then what.
I don't answer. He stands 3 seconds, carries his cup off. The water in it full; as he walks the surface shivers once, doesn't spill.
I set my tray on the belt. The woman in the blue smock at the tray return changed the bin once today. She says: Not much left today. I say: Fewer people. She says: Not fewer. She pushes the bin off.
13:40, I set the terminal to my own historical data.
> Stamp pressure curve · historical lookup (HZ-4471) > Range: November 3, 2105 — November 17, 2125 > Days: 7,319 > Sampling: continuous · no gaps > Sample point: seal pad pressure sensor C-4471 > Daily stamps: 8,000 — 10,080 > Pattern: uniform amplitude · uniform spacing · peak width constant > Anomaly flags: 7,319 > Anomaly position: daily 09:15:02 · duration 0.40 sec > Note: this item is not part of the annual physical.
7,319.
I run it once. Twenty years is 7,300 days, 5 leap days, November 3 to November 17 is 14 days. 7,300 plus 5 plus 14 is 7,319.
7,319 days, 7,319 marks. Not one missing.
The note line: this item is not part of the annual physical.
I counted yesterday: 20 physicals, 20 "fit," 20 blank signature fields. This item is not on the forms. The forms hold nothing else. The forms hold only fit.
I zoom the curve in to today's stretch.
09:15:02, one gap, 0.40 seconds wide. Today's is already there. It is the last of the 7,319, and the one I clocked in myself this morning.
The system recorded it. The system records every day.
I zoom back out to the whole span. 7,319 gaps, evenly spaced. On screen it reads as one dashed line, evenly dashed.
I shut the screen.
13:52, I look up the sample point itself.
> Measuring instrument verification record (excerpt) > Instrument: seal pad pressure sensor C-4471 > Installed: November 3, 2105 > Verification cycle: 12 months > Last verification: November 3, 2105 > Verification result: pass · error 0.00 > Note: this instrument is exempt from periodic verification.
The install date is my onboarding date. One verification only, that same day. Error 0.00.
Twenty years, and it has never been re-measured once. It has measured me 7,319 days.
I copied this page onto the blank space on the back of the slip of paper. Then erased it. The eraser left a furred patch on the paper.
I can't say why I erased it. Erased, the line is still there — the pressure pressed into the paper.
14:20, I take the stopwatch under the hall clock.
The hall clock hangs above the Zone C entrance. White face, red second hand. It runs 4 minutes slow against my stopwatch.
I clock 60 seconds. The clock's second hand jumps 60 times. At every jump my stopwatch sits exactly on a whole second. Four minutes adrift; not a second more, not a second less.
15:02, over to the annex building. The canteen clock hangs at the mouth of the aisle.
The canteen clock is 2 minutes slow against the hall clock. Twenty-year-old talk. Everyone says it.
I clock 60 seconds.
The canteen clock jumps 60 times. The hall clock jumps 60 times. Two clocks in 2 buildings, and the second hands jump on the same beat.
What's slow is those 2 minutes. Not the seconds.
I stand at the mouth of the aisle a while. The woman at the serving line wipes down the window inside, third pass. Three scratches on the clock glass, from 12 down to 6. The first time I saw it, 10 years ago, the 3 were already there.
15:20, back. Coming into Zone C I count screens. Starting from my row, 100 to a count. One hundred screens, the same number in the bottom right corner. When I reach 100, all 100 screens jump a second together.
Not once off.
15:28, I click open today's dispatch on the head-of-queue line.
> Item 77413 · dispatch timestamp (today) > Dispatch time: 07:00:00.000 > Seats: 3,000 > Arrival difference: 0.000 sec > Time base: local timekeeping
Three thousand seats, three thousand 07:00:00.000. It doesn't arrive one place and then the next. It arrives at 3,000 places in the same instant.
I shut the screen.
Back at my seat the queue has run to item 49. I stamp the first, the second, the third. On the fourth I look up once at the new tube in the ceiling. Lit. No flicker to see.
The numbers I carry through the day in my head: 0.4 seconds, 7,319 marks, 100 screens, 2 clocks, three thousand 07:00:00.000. Not one written down. Lao Zhou's Rule 10: no dates on paper. I haven't written the date. I don't write the numbers either.
15:37, up for water. Forty steps there and back. The water sits at my right hand. Not one sip.
16:02, I call the staff sanatorium in the western suburbs.
The one who answers says visits are by appointment. I say: Which day. She says: Tomorrow afternoon. I say: What time. She says: 14:00 to 16:00, 20 minutes inside. I say: Twenty minutes. She says: Rules.
I say: The one I'm visiting is surnamed Zhou.
She says: Third floor, 207.
I say: Is he there.
She says: Come and you'll know.
The call cuts off.
16:44, day-close.
> Reviewer: HZ-4471 > Stamps today: 8,120 > Net time: 4 hr 54 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
Past the standings screen. First line, not me. Day 9.
Today, no hall-leave register.
16:51, seal return. The stopwatch back in the deepest part of the drawer, under the seal.
18:12, the commuter car pulls in, empty. The 06:12 and the 18:12, two runs — every day of 20 years the same 2 numbers, pull-in to doors closed, 8 seconds. Past City Hall, the red characters on the sign sweep across the glass.
Today there is a screen in the car too. Arrival times on it, precise to the minute. I clock it once: the instant the minute flips, the full minute I counted in my head runs out exactly.
Home. The inkstone unwashed. The pothos watered.
I take out the slip of paper and flatten it. 8 lines on the front. I look a long time, fold it, put it back. Today I add nothing. I don't know which number to write: 0.4, or 7,319.
On the back, still 2 lines.
I move the inkstone under the lamp and grind 20 turns. The ink in the well — 11 years never dry, nor the 20 either. I start the character for true. At the third stroke I stop, and lay the pen across the inkstone.
The nib will sit on the inkstone's edge overnight. Tomorrow morning it will still be soft.
7,319 marks, 0.4 seconds each. The system recorded them 7,319 times. On the physicals, not once.
Tomorrow is day 15. In the afternoon, to see Lao Zhou. Third floor, 207.