"Count," Evan said, not for control, for rhythm.
Rita checked the tiny time in her corner. "Three," she said. "Two. One."
I looked into the small mouth that carries sentences to bus stops. "On record," I said. "Incident number 24-57131 — drone complaint. Index isn't a record. No seal, no story. Please don't harass clerks."
Rita tapped stop, trimmed air the width of a blink, and hit post. It left her phone like a receipt finding a bulletin board.
"Pinned on show," she said, thumb already moving. "Maya pinned. Evan pinned. Host will pin after his next toss. Window guard stays on: only card, clip, six words."
Evan's phone lit with its private tone. He didn't open the message. He reposted the note with the discipline of a carpenter. "Posted," he said. "Pinned."
The host's icon flashed through the hallway's tiny light like a friendly ship. His six words arrived under our clip in a voice that makes rooms behave: Seal, date, docket — or no story. Then he pinned us above himself, because hierarchy is also a craft.
Serena's name glowed on Rita's screen. Got it. Posting 09:40. Same line. Same font. Under it: Handler has route.
"Copy," Rita said.
The neighbor's door stayed shut. The hallway remembered it was a choir. The blue from the ramp faded into respectable gray.
Rita's phone twitched: Major-Blog tile, navy and smug. Exclusive Audio: Police Say License. It auto-played a breath — the coffee voice saying the wrong noun into his bodycam — then cut to the vendor's smile of a scan with the wrong seal.
Rita did not swear. She lifted our square in reply: incident number 24-57131 — drone complaint — with our window plate nested small, then attached the clip where I said the number out loud. "Logged," she said. "Window paired. No adjectives."
Aisha's voice came soft and metal. "I sent misleading letters to the blog and their ad team," she said. "Subject: Fabricated visual — wrong seal, wrong docket format. CC PIO with our incident number and Public Record Statement. If they breathe weasel words, Standards will enjoy a morning."
Vivian texted a single line that had learned not to scream: Board: 07:00 couch still requested. A second line came like teeth behind velvet: 'Two minutes only' if chemistry spikes.
"Reply with addendum and Rider again," Rita said. "No unannounced intimacy. Standing wide at Pelham. Consent on record. Window on board. Couch is for another week."
"Copy," Aisha said.
Evan's phone hummed with a different tone — his agent. He looked toward the ceiling as if it could grant context, then tapped accept and set the handset on speaker against the wall, hands visible.
"Thirty seconds," the agent said — voice trained to jog. "Board has an 08:30 vote titled 'clarify status' if the word 'license' trends above a threshold. I'm arguing for 'status remains private' — but if they vote 'clarify,' they'll draft an on-brand nothing that reads like something."
"No labels," Rita said, for the room.
"They'll sell it as respect," the agent said. "It will still look like smoke. If you preempt with a clean process visual at Pelham, it helps me kill the vote."
"Then we own the door before they do," I said.
"Board loves ownership," the agent said, dry. "Send them a picture to own that doesn't lie."
"09:55 wide," Rita said. "Consent on record lower-third. Window on board. Serena first."
"Board will ask why not earlier," the agent said. "They are discovering morning clocks."
Boone answered without moving his eyes. "Because earlier is where ambushes live," he said. "But we can take nine minutes back if we must."
Rita looked at him, then at me. "We can move Pelham to 09:47," she said. "Brand the door before any stream claims it. Consent on record and window visible in the frame."
Evan listened like a man counting loads. "If we move, we text Serena and the host now," he said. "We do not walk anyone into a surprise."
Rita nodded, already forming the rectangle. "Drafting," she said. "Pelham 09:47 wide — consent on record — window on board."
A chime from our sleeves — Aisha again. "PIO just replied in-channel," she said. "Incident 24-57131 — drone complaint logged. No comment on records. They'll post that to their feed in five. We can retweet without turning their staff into characters."
"Good," I said. "We're not feeding humans to a fire."
Vivian's next text was a picture, not a sentence: a scouting photo of our Pelham door under fluorescent honesty, pink tape X's marking spots on the sidewalk like someone teaching a dance to a lens. Under it, her caption: This is your door. Not theirs. I will move the cones. But they will move the cones back.
Boone leaned into the photo until air learned to be wary. "Pink at forty-five degrees from the jamb," he said. "They'll park a tripod behind the planter and pretend it's public art."
"Then our wide comes from inside," Rita said. "We shoot through the door frame out. We put window on the in-house board. Anyone stealing the visual drags our plate with it."
The host's icon lit our group again. If needed, I can teach the six words at 09:46 and toss to your wide. Thirty seconds. No 'clarify' language.
"Copy," Rita said. "Stand by at 09:44. I'll text 'go' or 'hold'."
The neighbor's peephole blinked once, as if it understood this would not be its story. The hallway breathed.
A new tile crawled up Rita's feed. Nolan, oily even in text: Courthouse Cam moves to the real door. His picture was an angle from across the street, the kind long lenses buy when they don't ask permission. The caption tried to be polite: Be there at 09:55.
"They still don't know which hinge," Boone said, almost kind.
Rita's phone pinged again — Vivian: Board wants lower-third wording pre-cleared. They propose 'mutual consent moment'.
"No," Rita said, typing while she spoke. "Lower-third reads Consent on Record. 'Mutual' is a vibe. Names, not vibes."
Aisha's approval arrived like a stamp. "Lock that," she said. "If Board pushes 'mutual,' we respond: consent on record is verifiable; 'mutual' is not."
Evan's agent was still on speaker, listening hard. "Send me the copy," he said. "I'll forward to their inbox before someone writes poetry."
"Sending," Rita said.
A whisper of rain nosed the window and remembered it had better things to do. Victor tilted his head and listened for the room's version of weather. "Good wind," he said. "Phones will keep their manners if you keep your sentences short."
The Major-Blog's navy tile updated — they added a faded courthouse seal watermark to their audio splash as if watermarks are truth. Rita captured it, circled the wrongness in her head, and didn't feed it with a caption. Window guard means choosing which nouns to starve.
"Board replied," Vivian texted. Consent on Record accepted. Window plate tolerated if it buys quiet.
"They're learning," Rita said.
The real guard from downstairs sent a courtesy ping — a picture of the drone operator sitting on his bike outside the rope line, a ticket tucked into his back pocket like an ethics pamphlet. The caption: Operator warned. Paper collected.
Evan's phone blinked the agent's name again. He didn't pick up. He looked at me. Map, not labels. He is very good at the discipline of not taking bait.
A small square slid under our door, slow and unambitious. Boone bent to it without letting his neck become a handle. A business card for a "license consultant," font apologetic, corner cheap. He photographed it, then slid it with two knuckles into a pocket that is a waiting room for evidence.
"Window later," Rita said. "Not worth a post."
Aisha cleared her throat in our sleeves. "One more thing," she said. "Standards proposes that any door visual tomorrow carries a corner caption window with the words 'consent stated on air' and the time. If you agree, we'll clip the minute and send it to Vivian to pre-load."
"We agree," I said.
"I agree," Evan said.
Rita wrote the sentence into a rectangle that checked all our boxes without praising itself. The draft looked like a quiet sign on a good door.
Vivian's picture came through again — the pink tape now shadowed by two production cones. Her caption understood defeat and decided to call it rehearsal: Cones moved. I can stall; I cannot litigate the sidewalk.
"We don't need the sidewalk," Boone said. "We need the frame."
Rita finished typing. She read it once, not for grammar, for verbs.
Pelham 09:47 wide — consent on record — window on board — caption window reads 'consent stated on air' with time. Serena first. No cutaways. No labels.
She looked at me. "Send," she said, but it was also a question.
Evan breathed in, then out, like a man picking up a box he already knows he can carry. "Send," he said.
I nodded because nods are verbs.
Rita hit the blue.
The message left the phone and crossed the hallway like a small, necessary weather.