The Cold Click of the Scantag

Dear Delyara, The clock reads 4:55 AM, and the handheld patrol scanner makes a flat, electronic beep as I press it against the magnetic tag hidden behind the waste bins. Every hour I have to walk this exact route, scanning ten separate cold metal discs to prove to a computer program in another city that I am awake, moving, and compliant. It is a strange humiliation for someone with a business degree to have their physical movements monitored in five-minute increments by an algorithm. I am walking this final lap with my chin up and my shoulders square, gripping the plastic tool hard, reminding myself that every single scan is just an hour of labor traded to finance the independent corporate structure that will eventually carry me out of this yard for good.