THE DEFLATED BALL

Célia's container hissed when she pressed it against the table. A split by the spout let out air at short intervals, and the fourth portion of corn cooled before her without losing its shape. She turned the container, looked for the point of the crack and pressed again. The whistle came out thinner. It won't go up like that, said Nael. Célia put her finger on the split. The climb to the route required almost two hours under the sun, and the nearest supply point sold water in sealed containers whose price changed with every query. That morning, one unit cost the equivalent of three days' lodging before the speculative reservations. She had balance for one, provided she gave up the transport back. The journalist took the covered dough. She ate half, kept the other in the cloth she had brought tied to her waist. The man watched the division without offering his part. Célia's folding visor vibrated on the bench. The artificial intelligence that administered the newsroom had recognised her stay in a source's house and reclassified the visit as participation in an incident. Her travel credit was withheld until another editor assessed the conflict. There had been no other editor since the portal dismissed the two people who still answered before the machines. She read the notification once. Then she closed the visor. You can still go, said Ilva. Going I can do. Confirming, the man completed. Célia pressed the container again. The air answered. In the street, the trucks waited in silence, their cargo panels lit under the dust. No driver got out. The cabins kept people inside the contracted surveillance strip, while the shadow of the truck beds reached the dry grass and drew back as the sun rose. Nael got up and went to the back room. He came back with a deflated ball, of synthetic leather split in six places. He and Antônio had played with it on the ground behind the bar, before the soil received probes and luminous fences. For three nights the ball had stayed hidden on top of the bar's first refrigerator, together with the money Nael had earned driving an excavator. Then the compressor had started to cough, the money had turned into machine, and the two of them went on kicking until the inner bladder escaped through a seam. Antônio had kept the ball when they closed off the ground. Nael had kept the bladder. He sat down near the door and pulled a piece of darkened rubber through the opening. He stretched the material between his fingers. It still gave. This will hold, he said. Célia brought the container close. Nael cut a strip with the blade used in the kitchen, heated the rubber on the side of the stove and wound two turns around the spout. The smell filled the house. The third turn came out thicker on one side, and he trimmed it slowly, following a skill he had not learned driving any machine. Ilva poured the water set aside for the path into the container. Less than a hand's breadth. Célia squeezed the flexible wall. The hissing stopped. She turned the spout downwards. A drop grew at the patch, trembled and went back inside when Nael tightened the strip. The water would stay there for a few hours. The ball, which had passed through the feet of the two boys and twenty years of dust, had at last lost a part that would not come back. Célia fastened the container to her waist. Now she could climb without buying water, but the credit retention stayed on the visor. If she confirmed as witness, the automated newsroom could keep her classified as a participant. The story would come out without her name, surrounded by the operation's advertisements that paid for the portal's storage. The man gathered up his bag. The mark of the glass still cut across his face, paler near the temple. Ilva adjusted the band on her leg and stood before him long enough for Célia to look outside. Are you going too, asked the journalist. He showed the affective hosting on his wrist. His status as witness remained suspended, but the civil presence authorised the route as far as the beginning of the licensed polygon. I'll go as far as they let me. Célia opened the visor and confirmed her participation as third witness. The visit's deadline stopped shrinking. Then the newsroom removed her name from the story about the route and replaced her photo with a generated image of a stream still green, too wide to be the Lajes. She did not contest it. She kept the visor against her body. The four of them went out into the yard. Near the tank, the young buriti held up a single upright leaf. Nael passed the deflated ball to the man, who took it back to the back room. The repaired container knocked twice against Célia's thigh. No drop fell. When she reached the gate, Ilva asked whether the confirmation would still hold after the story. Célia stopped under the pickup on the eaves. A truck accelerated on the upper road, covering her voice and taking up the whole record. Célia nodded.