We rolled up with the truck, and it was instant chaos — brown water boiling from the street, horns blaring, somebody already filming instead of moving their car.
I waded in, boots filling, pants soaking, thinking about 6:30 the whole time.
Each minute tightened around my chest.
Five-thirty came and went while we wrestled hoses and cursed at rusted valves.
At 5:50, I climbed out of the hole, soaked and shaking.
“I gotta go,” I yelled to my supervisor, grabbing my bag.
He frowned like I’d just suggested we leave the water running forever.
“My kid’s recital,” I said, throat tight.
He stared for a heartbeat, then jerked his chin.
“Go. You’re no good here anyway if your brain’s already gone.”
