Silence. The taxi idled. The dome light flickered.
Antonio had driven a cab for twenty-two years. He knew the shortcuts through the city’s veins, the exact pitch of a passenger about to vomit, and the precise pressure needed on the gas pedal to make a yellow light. But on this humid Tuesday, he faced his true nemesis: a word processor.
“You taking fares?” the man asked, pointing to the glowing roof sign.
“In a minute!” Antonio snapped, waving him away. He couldn't abandon the formatting. If the columns didn’t match, the audit would reject the bill. If the audit rejected the bill, Leo said the algorithm would “shadow-ban” his medallion number. He didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like something a witch doctor would do.