Reed arrives like a person who has practiced not running. A hand covers yours, not hard. The yellow valve goes home with a click you would have missed if you were still being a legend.

“Good stop,” Reed says. “A stop is a skill. The test loop you almost opened is for when we are on Gannet’s crane, not for when the mountain of water is sitting on the other side of the seat.”

Vargas on comm: “If they are still dry, put them back on the card.”

Reed walks you to the laminated brick of habits. “We name tanks. We flood slow. We watch the pool. We do not collect colors.” The warning collar on the green valve looks less like a game now. It looks like a sentence.

You are not in trouble. You are in a job. The difference is whether you keep twisting after the tick.

Reed points you at the trim lights. Mustard. Heavy. “Come on. Do it ugly and correct.”

Turn to 7.