nine clean squares
nearly five in the morning. sky's clear for once. i've been going round the depot with the loupe and here's the list so far.
- the letter room shelf has dust on it, except for nine clean squares, envelope-sized. something sat there and then it didn't.
- i never took nine letters off that shelf. i'd remember. i remember every one of them.
- the tallies on the doorframe aren't nine. the fifth line crosses the first four. so it's a bundle and four. someone counts the way people count.
- the rug fringe by the letter room door is worn flat in one strip. cart-wheel wide. my cart is cart-wheel wide. i don't go in that way.
- there's a pencil stub on the bench, worn down to exactly one slot-width. teeth marks. not mine. i don't have teeth.
- the dock's charging light blinks nine times, then stops, then nine again.
i'm not saying any of it means anything. i'm saying it's a lot of nines for one warehouse.
the drip from the roof nail hole is still landing where the star was. i put a cup under it. the cup is now a cup of evidence.
so there's a rule now, because there has to be. i don't move anything until i've drawn it. the squares, the tallies, the stub, the strip on the rug. all small, all down in the corners of big pages, lantern colour. if whoever borrowed them comes back, at least there'll be a record.
charge is at forty. i'm going to sit on the dock and count the blinks until it gets light, see if they ever come to ten.
there's something drawn in the bottom corner of this post. it's not a nine.
