THE FLAT WHINE OF THE PATROL WAND

Dear Delyara, The clock reads 4:55 AM, and the digital scanner lets out a flat, electronic whine as I press it against the magnetic tag hidden behind the southern transformer cage. Every hour, without exception, I have to walk this exact route, scanning ten separate 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 audited in five-minute increments by an algorithm. I am walking this final circuit with my chin up and my shoulders square, holding the plastic device firmly, 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.