He snatched me up.

His grip was strong, crumpling my body into a ball.

"I’m going out for a smoke!"

He roared and stormed out the door.

He stuffed the crumpled me into his pants pocket.

The man stood under a streetlight outside his apartment building, took out a lighter, and lit a cigarette.

As the smoke swirled around him, his mood slowly began to settle.

He reached into his pocket and felt the wad of paper.

He pulled me out and smoothed me flat, little by little.

He re-examined every word on my surface.

"Hazardous Conditions in Public Municipal Infrastructure"

"Please provide a detailed description of the safety hazard you have identified"

"Every report you submit is the beginning of our efforts to improve the living environment in Pittsburgh and rebuild our home."

This last line of small text was printed in a handwritten font. It was Leo Wallace’s handwriting.

Home.

The man stared at the word.

He threw his cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it out with his foot.

He pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket.

He looked around, his gaze locking onto the sidewalk not far from him.

There was a missing manhole cover there, hastily covered with just a few rotten wooden planks.

Last week, the neighbor’s kid had nearly fallen in.

The man walked over to the manhole and squatted down.

He placed the wrinkled paper on his knee and uncapped the pen.

The tip of the pen pierced viciously into my body.

"Location: In front of 452 Martin Luther King Avenue, Hill District."

"Hazard: Missing sewer manhole cover, depth approximately 2 meters."

"Danger Level: Extremely high. Has already caused multiple near-accidents."

He wrote with such force that the strokes nearly tore through my fibers.

These weren’t just words. This was his anger, his accusation, his roar directed at that distant City Hall.

When he finished writing, he stood up.

The young guy from the Union who had been handing out flyers hadn’t gone far; he was talking with someone on the street corner.

The man strode over.

He handed me to the young man.

"Here," the man said. "I hope this isn’t just some kind of performance art."

The young man took me, glanced at what was written, and nodded solemnly.

"Don’t worry, sir. This time, we’re for real."

The young man opened the folder he was carrying and tucked me inside.

Darkness instantly enveloped me.

Pressed against the cold inner wall of the folder, I began to shake violently with the young man’s steps.

But this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning of my long journey.

The young man didn’t stop to rest. He carried me onward, weaving through the labyrinthine, dilapidated alleyways of the Hill District.

I felt every violent jolt as he climbed up cracked, uneven concrete steps.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

That was the sound of him tirelessly knocking on one old wooden door after another.

Through the black plastic cover, muffled conversations filtered in.

There were the hesitant questions of the elderly, the angry complaints of housewives, and the impatient doubts of the young.

"The streetlight’s been out for half a year. What good will filling out a form do?"

"Those people at City Hall forgot about us long ago!"

"Can you really get it fixed? If it’s not fixed, I’m holding you responsible!"

The young man explained over and over again. His voice, high and clear at first, gradually grew hoarse and weary, yet remained firm.

The smell of sweat seeped in through his work vest.

I followed him through more than half the neighborhood, from afternoon until dusk, feeling his body temperature rise and his breathing become ragged.

Inside that dark folder, I accompanied him as he measured every corner of this forgotten community.

Not until the sky was completely dark did the hurried footsteps finally stop.

ZZZIP.

A zipper was pulled open, and a cool breeze rushed in.

I saw a dim, yellow dome light inside a car.

The young man straightened out the folder I was in and placed it in a cardboard box.

There, I met countless others of my kind.

Some were stained with grease, some bore the marks of rainwater. Some had messy scrawls, while others were filled out in neat, elegant script.

They documented broken guardrails, exposed electrical wires, teetering billboards, and roads riddled with potholes.

Gathered together, we were no longer just sheets of paper.

We were the prelude to a tsunami.

Frank stood by a van, directing the whole operation.

"Hurry! Sort these forms!"

"The one about the missing manhole cover—send Team Three to take photos! I want high-res, and make sure you get the surrounding area in the shot!"

"The one with the exposed wires—have an electrician confirm it and write down the specifics!"

I was taken out again.

A pair of gloved hands held me, arriving in front of that same manhole.

CLICK.

The flash went off.

A photograph was printed out.

In the photo, the dark, gaping mouth of the manhole looked particularly menacing.

CHUNK.

The crisp sound of a stapler.

The photo was stapled firmly to my body.

The metal staple pierced through me, locking me forever to that dangerous truth.

I was put back in a box.

This time, it was a proper panel truck.

The cargo bay was filled with neatly stacked cardboard boxes, each one bearing a label: Central Avenue – Severe Road Collapse, Pioneer Avenue – Streetlight Malfunction, Willie Avenue – Missing Sewer Manhole Cover...

The truck started up.

We crossed the bridge, passed through the tunnel, and finally stopped in front of a gray building.

The Department of Public Works.

Sarah was already waiting there.

She and a few young staff members began unloading us, box by box.