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I saunter up, tip my hat, all cool-like. “Evenin’, miss,” I say, voice smooth as whiskey. She smirks, like, “What’s a bailiff want with me?” I’m thinkin’, *“Maybe we’re just pretending to live,”*—another *Yi Yi* gem. Ain’t that the truth? We’re all playin’ parts down here. I ask her rate—straight up, no bullshit. She says, “Ten bucks, mister, take it or scram.” I laugh, loud and deep—ten bucks in 1800s coin? That’s a damn fortune! Surprised me, her guts did. Gotta respect the hustle.

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So, I grab my black coffee and head to the office on Kvarnbacksvägen. Traffic was a mess. Like, why is everyone in Arsta suddenly a race car driver? I swear, I saw a dude in a Volvo trying to drift around a corner. Not cool, man. Not cool.

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