THE FLAT BEEP OF THE CONTROL BOX

Dear Delyara, The clock reads 4:50 AM, and the handheld data collector emits a flat, metallic beep as I press its nose against the electronic checkpoint tag fixed to the rear fence post. Every hour, without exception, I must walk this exact line, checking ten separate tags to confirm to a remote monitoring system that I am awake and moving. It is a strange, automated humiliation for someone with a business management degree to have their physical movements audited in five-minute blocks by a computer script. I am walking this final circuit with my chin up and my shoulders back, holding the plastic device firmly, reminding myself that every single beep is just a unit of labor traded to fund the independent corporate structure that will permanently lift me out of this yard.