The day became a parade of interrupted repairs. Every time Daniel began one job, another request arrived that seemed more urgent to someone with a larger office. A conference room was too cold, a badge reader refused to register a new employee, and a presentation display showed a blue screen instead of the numbers waiting executives expected to see. Daniel solved the problems in the order that safety and basic function required, not the order of the departments making the loudest demands. It was the only way he knew to finish a long day without leaving behind something that could hurt somebody.
At five, he found Harold outside the rear entrance, sitting on a low concrete wall beneath the canopy. The rain had stopped, but the pavement remained slick, and workers hurried past toward the transit station. Harold was looking at a timetable on his phone, tapping the screen with one finger and frowning. Daniel sat beside him. "What's the problem?" he asked.
Harold hesitated before answering. He had missed the last direct bus to his neighborhood because a security review meeting ran beyond the end of his shift. The next route required a transfer across town, and he did not have enough on his transit card to complete it. He would have waited for a cheaper late-night service, except that his sister needed him at home to bring medication and help prepare dinner. Harold tried to make the story sound like an inconvenience instead of the frightening arithmetic of a person with no room left for unexpected expenses.
Daniel opened his wallet. Inside were his identification card, the bus pass he had not renewed, two receipts, a photograph of Emily and Lily on a beach, and a twenty-dollar bill folded beneath the photograph. The bill was the last cash he could spend before payday, and he had been holding it for groceries and transportation. He looked at Harold, who was