every weekday workers dutifully turn down the no through road and come to a halt within the fenced-in quad, under the watchful eyes of several spycams. if it's around nine am the driving gets a little nervy; the quad can only contain so many cars, and you wouldn't want to leave your car outside of the eyes' view: this is walkerville.



the workers then cross the bridge and file into the appropriate building. they leave the quad as if leaving an island, crossing over to the mainland, the office.



every single worker i have seen doing the crossing has slumped shoulders as he/she walks, dejectedly or defensively, towards work. when i look from the bridge i wonder if sometimes they dream of swimming off down the stream like the ducks do. it'd be better than imagining leaping from the bridge; the water's only knee-deep, you'd only break your neck.

the cars roar away from five pm, tearing round the bend up over the hill towards alternatives, leaving behind the no through road and its quad. the quad, empty and at night, is eerie; its orange lights shine, its wire stays taught; the spy cams keep watching.