Eight Minutes

At 6:08, Leda wheeled the municipal rain controller into Market Square. Its screen offered DRIZZLE, SHOWER and CONSULT ENGINEER.

She was the engineer.

The city’s first scheduled rain would begin at 6:10, cover a ten-metre square and last eight minutes. Leda had spent three weeks arranging it.

“You’ll soak my bread,” said the baker.

“Your stall is outside the marked area.”

“My customers aren’t.”

The flower seller wanted rain, but not on the paper sleeves. The newspaper man wanted it yesterday, when he hadn’t been there. Someone upstairs shook a damp bathmat at her.

At 6:09, Leda’s supervisor called.

“We need footage of people enjoying it.”

Behind her, the market cleaner raised his hand.

“Can you hold it a minute? I’ve nearly finished sweeping.”

Leda looked at his broom, then at the pale crust of yesterday’s cabbage leaves on the cobbles.

“What happens after you sweep?”

“Usually I fetch eleven buckets.”

She pressed DELAY.

The cleaner worked quickly. The baker moved his queue. The flower seller dragged three empty plant tubs inside the yellow boundary. By 6:14, the newspaper man had contributed a filthy rubber doormat and was firmly explaining his place in the queue.

Leda selected SHOWER.

Rain fell in a neat, improbable square. Outside it, dust remained on the cobbles. Inside, the cleaner pushed water towards the drain while the baker held two delivery trays overhead.

Leda recorded thirty seconds for her supervisor.

“Why is everyone carrying something?” he asked.

“Participation.”

At eight minutes, the rain stopped cleanly. The flower seller checked her tubs. The cleaner leaned on his broom.

The newspaper man approached Leda with a diary.

“Next Tuesday?”

“It’s a pilot.”

“Fine,” he said. “Pencil me in.”