THE SHAFT BOX

The pot of porridge had water enough for three spoonfuls in each bowl. Renan arrived as Luzia was scraping the bottom with her fingernail, making a white circle appear under the thin paste. He had brought the shaft box against his thigh, without going into the service cabinet. The heat of the kitchen stuck his shirt to his back. The occupant pushed his own bowl away. Renan put the box on the bench, where Antônio used to sort empty bottles before the bar was suspended. The lid lit up. The workshop sent a deadline, he said. The screen projected forty-three minutes. The consortium's batch buyer demanded that Renan choose between provisional custody or technical refusal of the incompatible shaft. The first option kept the tool linked and his name tied to the part. The second triggered a transport audit, paid for by the address that sustained the new rotor. Who authorised this, asked Ilva. The supply manager, answered Renan. Her name appeared for an instant, below the clause of shared responsibility. Luzia stopped her fingernail over the bowl. Outside, two geckos came out of the shadow of the duct and ran across the hot surface, after the insects gathering near the sodium light. The murici had twisted leaves, scraped by the dust that came from the mine. They said at the workshop that, in some land far away, they made laws to count water, energy, ground, those datacenter things, said Renan. So the company wants to show that here everything has a destination. Here it has a destination, said the occupant. It goes to the house of whoever already owes. Renan opened the lid. The pale alloy stayed seated in its holder, too clean for Buritaçu, with the groove of red earth the inspection had erased from the report. He ran his finger above the rib without touching it. If I refuse, they send for the box and lock the house's technical energy until the forensic inspection. If I accept, they say I was the one who ordered the part. Ilva raised the spoon to her mouth and let the porridge cool on it. The utility company could cut off the rotor's consumption, and the kitchen would lose even that narrow strip where the farinha took longer to spoil. The supply manager called that chain correction. The consortium would keep the water saved on the panel, while the datacenter's towers went on releasing vapour above the cerrado. The occupant pulled the panel closer. The second audio was waiting with the same temporary mark, tied to Antônio's return. The platform offered a new route. Associated proof of residence could sustain the audit without transferring the shaft to Renan's responsibility. You're going to use my mother to cover the part, he said. No, said Renan. The workshop is going to use her. I just need to accept or let them use the house. The box gave a short pulse. Thirty minutes remained. Ilva got up and opened the corridor partition. The strip cut from his mother's house appeared, marked by Renan's dirty palm. The occupant stood in front of it, the empty bowl between his hands. Don't hand over the audio, said Ilva. He did not answer. He closed the house panel, picked the shaft box up from the bottom and carried it out of the kitchen.