Drills on Thursday ran late because someone had nicked a relay cover in Sector 6. Director Lian split Mentor Hall into response teams; Mira landed with Nia, two boys from Infirmary-Fast-Track, and a girl who kept calling Mira "7B" like it was an insult. Lian's voice came through lapel speakers: "Walk it clean. No talking."
At Transfer J they found the leak—a maintenance hatch weeping steam onto Tile 9. The tiles around it reddened: stop, stop, stop. The Infirmary boys set up a barrier while Lian rerouted foot traffic. Mira hung back; steam made her think of the laundry-panel buzz and the worklight jump. She pressed her thumb to her own wrist and counted pulses to keep still.
Then Ari showed up.
Institute of Civil Rails — everyone knew the tab. Ari worked the afternoon as a gofer for the Directors, nineteen maybe, all calm hands and "excuse me" as they opened the hatch with a code Mira couldn't see. The steam thinned. Ari propped the hatch with a tool, checked a handheld, and said, "Safe for transit but someone's fixing dinner in there." The Infirmary boys laughed. Lian gave Ari a nod that meant _document and go.
Mira didn't move fast enough when the crowd shifted. Her boot caught Tile 10; Tile 9 still red, Tile 10 green, Tile 11—she didn't see which. The tile under her heel soft-ticked and went black. She stumbled sideways into the hatch frame; hot metal kissed her forearm. A gasp escaped her; she bit it off, but the strip above her head lit amber.
Ari caught her elbow. "Easy," they said. "Tile's dead. You're not."
Mira braced for a reprimand. Ari glanced at the blistered patch on her arm and then at her face. "You okay?"
She nodded, stupid with adrenaline. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me," Ari said, and Mira's stomach dropped—right, rule-breaking, reportable moment—until Ari added, very quiet: "Tile maps are public. They should fix the bad ones faster." It wasn't rebellion, not exactly. It was repair-clause solidarity. It made Mira's throat weird.
Lian waved Mira off the route. Nia appeared as if summoned, handed Mira a sleeve of water, and kept walking so it looked like a coincidence. "You collect rescuers," she muttered. "Ari's with ladders. Jax's with meters."
"Shut up," Mira said, but fondly.
Her forearm stung through the afternoon. In history, Sol passed a note: Who is Ari? Mira wrote back: Civil Rails. Nice hands. Sol underlined _nice_ once and gave the note to Jax, who gave it back to Mira with a tiny resistor taped to it like a joke gift.
At dinner, her mother saw the burn. "Hatch?"
"Tile."
Her mother ran cool water, taped gauze, and didn't ask why Mira's eyes looked too big. "I knew someone in Civil Rails," she said, offhand. "They kept the timetables honest." Mira filed that away: _mother's past-tense people_ were usually off-limits. She didn't push.
Evening walk to clear her head, Mira passed Annex again. The sparrow graffiti now had a whole wing and a beak, like someone was bringing it back to life stroke by stroke. She stopped. Footsteps reached her—civilian pace, not patrol. She turned.
Ari, out of tab, hair damp from a shower, holding two paper cups. They offered one. "Coolant's for burns," Ari said. "But tea's for manners."
Mira's eyebrow did its thing. "I didn't tell you my name."
"You didn't have to. I read incident reports. Also, 7B talks to itself at Tiles."
Heat rushed Mira's face. "That's private."
Ari sipped tea. "It's data. Don't worry. I like people who talk to Tiles." They leaned against the wall, not close, not far. "Tile 9 should've been red three meters earlier. I'll file the note."
Mira exhaled. "They'll say I stepped wrong."
"Probably. But you're all right?"
"Yeah."
They drank tea in silence while the sparrow watched. Mira wanted to ask ten questions and asked none. Ari didn't push. When they left, they said, "First names are safer in Annex. I'm Ari."
"Mira." She held out her good hand. They shook, brief and warm.
In Apartment 7B, she untaped the gauze, checked the burn, and opened her worksheet. Homework balanced. Below it, she drew three circles (the Circle) and, slightly apart, a fourth figure with nice hands. She labeled it *Ari — 09:18* because that was the westbound that had been crossing when Ari caught her elbow.
She fell asleep before the 21:12 northbound. No counting. For once, no counting.