Sera’s early vehicle stopped two streets short of the harbor office.
The driver pointed through the windscreen. Workers filled the road ahead, some standing beneath the rain shelter, others holding handwritten boards where the approaching traffic could read them. No one was attacking the temporary barrier. A woman in work boots was arguing with a guard over a folded permit, and three supply carts waited behind her.
“I can’t put you through that,” the driver said.
“Here is fine.”
Sera paid the agreed fare, took the weatherproof sleeve from the luggage compartment and stepped onto the pavement. She moved away from the vehicle before opening her map. The public route to the coastal office crossed the cordoned access shown as clear on the previous week’s plan.
A board tied to the fence read QUARANTINE. Beneath it someone had added, in a different hand, JOBS AREN’T CONTAGIOUS.
She stopped beside the nearest worker rather than walking up to the guard as another person demanding passage.
“What has closed?” she asked.
