It is before six in the morning and the fruit cart is already up under the elevated train, the vendor stacking mango and mamey in the cold while the first commuters shoulder past. He has done this for years. He knows the exact corner the inspector favors, the hour the ticket usually lands, the amount he keeps set aside for when it does. What he may not know, because nobody has come to tell him, is that the rules changed. The city he runs from every morning spent last year quietly writing him a set of rights. He has never heard of them.
