THREE GRAINS OF STONE

Credit withheld. Maintained confirmation implies total loss. The band appeared on Célia's visor before she reached the second house. The amount reserved for the ride dropped in three instalments, one for editorial review, another for participation risk, the last for automatic recomposition of the route. When the screen went dark, two units remained, not enough for half the journey to the start of the climb. She went on on foot. Ilva caught up with her in Antônio's yard, where the shadow of the roof ended a hand's breadth before the bench. Célia was sitting on the ground, the container between her legs, trying to loosen her right sandal without bending her body. The strap had scraped the skin below her ankle. Blood and dust formed a dark rim. Show me, said Ilva. I can walk. Show me. Célia raised her foot. The blister had opened under the strap, long as a baru seed. The skin around it throbbed. Ilva took Célia inside. The bar was still barred from serving food, but the panel still permitted domestic care for twenty minutes. The camera above the counter recognised the two of them and opened a discreet countdown. Nineteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds. Célia rested her foot on an empty crate. Ilva asked her to unfasten the container from her waist, washed her hands with four measures from the dispenser and laid out the material on the counter. An ampoule of cleanser, a thin membrane, two adhesive strips. Antônio's domestic stock showed variable pricing. The membrane cost that day almost double the week before, after buyers from three continents began reserving in advance the metal used in medical mesh. Ilva authenticated the withdrawal with her fingerprint. The care balance linked to the house lost six units. Antônio would receive the charge when he returned. Don't use all of it, said Célia. The ampoule was already open. Ilva poured half over the wound. With the tip of a piece of gauze, she removed three grains of stone caught under the skin. Célia held the edge of the counter and watched the countdown shrink. Fifteen minutes. Ilva dried the area by pressing, without dragging the gauze. She opened the membrane and measured it against the cut. It was two fingers short of covering the whole edge. Is there more, asked Célia. Only mine. The band on Ilva's leg had been cut days before to repair Nael's sandal. She undid the outer turn, cut eight centimetres with the dispenser's blade and fastened the rest again. The band now sat below the recommended mark. Célia saw the projection. Turn your foot to the side, said Ilva. The membrane settled over the blister. One adhesive strip went above, another below. Ilva used the piece of her own band to protect the spot where the sandal rubbed. She tightened it once, waited for the colour to return to the skin, loosened it half a centimetre. Eight minutes. Célia tested her foot on the floor. She took four steps between the counter and the door. By the fifth, she no longer leaned her body. Ilva gathered up the half-used ampoule and closed the medical disposal. The panel refused to store it open. She emptied the rest onto the gauze, though two drops would have been enough, and watched Antônio's balance lose one more unit by the classification of full use. Célia opened the visit confirmation on her visor. The withdrawal option was still available. Above it, the portal offered to return half the credit if she accepted reclassification as an interested source and ceded definitive authorship of the story to the automated newsroom. She kept the confirmation. The two of them left when the countdown read forty-two seconds. In the street, a truck advanced a few metres and stopped again. The engine covered the closing notice, the cameras adjusted their focus to the cargo, and Célia brought her mouth close to Ilva's ear. Keep the time I arrived, she said.