The night begins in a logistics center that is also a court. Printers spit badges: CARE, CLEARANCE, RETURN APPROVED. I put my arm through a plastic sleeve. Out comes a label with my name reduced to merchandise.

At the returns desk, Foucault wears a corporate polo. Each fear becomes a KPI. A silent clerk cuts boxes open, separating cardboard from promise. The package does not lie when wet.

Outside a conference, badges work until the door; then the ink evaporates.

My sand hand returns in a sterile glove. Sand leaks into the barcodes. The scanner can no longer distinguish merchandise, wound, and waste. For one second the desk becomes a court: every box goes back to whoever packed it.

The corridor collapses at the rear, where the residue was parked. New plastic smells like rotten rain.