1

As a kid growing up in the shadow of Mt. Rainier, Sarah knew all about garbage. It pissed her off the way some people littered the Yelm-Tenino trail that passed through town. Even at nine years old, she hadn't waited until Earth Day to grab a garbage bag, her bike, and scour the trail to pick up the trash.

Beer cans. Plastic bottles. Junk food wrappers. More beer cans. She had gathered it all up, sorted it into recycling and trash, cleaned the recycling and then peddled up 133rd and over on Station to the transfer station on Sunday morning to drop off the recycling. The trash went in her parent's trash can despite Dad's scowls. Small wonder that she grew up to drive the recycling truck for Mayfair. Not how she pictured saving the Earth—but few things work out the way you think it will when you're a kid.

Sarah brought the big truck to her first stop on Tipsoo Loop. The truck huffed and groaned. The yellow flashers sent spots spinning across the simple gray ranch house. Not the nicest place on the loop, or the worst. Ordinarily, they kept their bins neat.

Not today. Sarah leaned on the big wheel, studying the scene outside spotlighted by her side light. The blue recycle bin's lid stood at a 45-degree angle. Boxes or something holding it up, she couldn't make it out in the shadow cast by the lid. They were supposed to have it fully closed.

That wasn't the only thing. Sarah picked up her coffee mug and sipped the dark brew that scraped open her eyes in the morning. A stack of cardboard boxes leaned against the side of the recycling bin, each overstuffed. She tapped the switch that moved the side light.

Books. Books filled the cardboard boxes to overflowing. "What the hell?"

Sarah didn't have anyone in the truck to keep her company. No one except the vinyl Doby house elf pop figure on her dash. She loved the Potter books. Great books. She loved reading, period. The thought that these people had just thrown all of their books out? Plus, they'd overfilled the bin and piled boxes against the side so she couldn't use the truck's arm even if she wanted to do it.

And a bin full of books would weigh too much anyway.

Sarah sighed. These people weren't leaving her much choice. She couldn't pick all this up for recycling. She'd have to report it. File a non-compliance and send one of the garbage trucks around to pick up the mess.

The coffee tasted bitter but not as bad as the thought of sending all of these books to the dump. It didn't seem right.

"Doby, this is a mess. Any advice?"

The figure's black eyes didn't give her anything. Sarah checked the dash clock. She still had to get her route done.

"Damn it." She tapped the home button on the dash-mounted tablet.

On the route map, she tapped the icon for the house and checked the boxes for no pickup—non-compliance and special pickup—non-recyclables. Her finger hovered over the submit button.

The customer would get billed for non-compliance and the extra pickup and load. It'd serve them right. And the books would go to the dump.

Or not.

The thought chasing its tail around her brain ran risks of job loss and ethics violations. Collectors couldn't take items home that customers left out for pickup. It'd mean the end of her job. The same thing could happen with a false report. Especially if one of the other drivers reported her.

It wasn't worth the risk of losing her job. If she lost her job, she couldn't make rent, pay her student loans, buy food—she could be living out of her car by the end of the month.

Yet people doing nothing got the Earth into the shape it was in now. Sending all of those books to the dump was wrong. That kid on the bike would have made trips to move the books back home, and then she'd have gone out of her way to find homes for them. Those that she didn't keep and read herself.

No pickup. Sarah checked the box and tapped submit. She threw the truck into gear and started down the street to the next stop.