Chapter 11: The Missing Jose

"Seattle Clay Street Fatal Accident: Manual Garbage Compactor Causes One Death, One Injury; Garbage Transport System Reveals Serious Safety Hazards!"

"(Seattle, August 5) At 8 p. m. last night, a horrific accident occurred at the Clay Street Garbage Dump."

"Two homeless vagrants were pulled into an old-style manual garbage compactor and crushed together with waste into compacted blocks, resulting in one death on the spot and another severely injured, currently in critical condition. This incident brutally exposed once again the daily dangers faced by society's marginalized and systemic safety flaws in garbage collection."

Roger carefully read the content of this report.

Although he disliked the white female journalist's style, he had to admit her professional competence was solid.

In just one night, she had basically figured out the situation and answered his questions.

The surviving guy's name was indeed Eli Bart, a low-class African American homeless man.

The other woman was a vagrant known as Red Lips Wife, who had a brief physical relationship with Eli.

Among vagrants, there's no such luxury as falling in love—everyone just takes what they need.

Especially a female vagrant who often smoked weed; selling her body for money was normal.

But in Vanessa's news report, she didn't emphasize their relationship—only stated that both were pulled into the garbage truck along with the bin while asleep and taken to Yosedun Garbage Dump.

The dump's owner didn't bother checking, and directly fed them into the manual compactor.

Fortunately, during compression, the old compactor suddenly broke down and stopped halfway.

So the dump owner halted compression, drove away the compactor, and headed to the factory for repairs.

Why didn't the two vagrants react during this process?

Simple—they were high, blissed out in their dreams.

Also, the reporter didn't mention the identity of the discoverers, only said two employees found the man trapped in the garbage block and rescued him.

Roger believed neither Vanessa nor the dump owner would reveal the truth.

One out of protecting the Informer, the other to avoid blame.

After all, if the police found out he hired illegal immigrant vagrants, the owner would face a hefty fine.

After reading the full report, Roger checked the comments.

Although only a few minutes had passed, the comments already numbered dozens, mostly expressing shock and confusion.

"Looks like this intern reporter will get hired permanently."

Putting down his phone, Roger looked ahead at the line.

He was currently at the lunch distribution point of the relief center, having waited over half an hour.

Although he wasn't short on money, free food was definitely better than paid food, and he had only $130 total—had to be careful.

The line crept forward slowly; after swatting away a vagrant's hand groping his ass from behind, he finally reached the front.

Today's lunch was hummus, bread, and two slices of bacon.

"This bacon's so dry, it's like winter-dried socks—rock hard!"

Roger reluctantly ate a few bites to fill his stomach, then received a text from Zoe.

Zoe: "I got a job!"

Roger: "Really? That's great, congratulations!"

Right after sending the message, Zoe called him directly.

"Haha, I told you people can't be unlucky forever!" came the girl's excited voice over the phone.

"You know what? My interview went incredibly smoothly—she didn't ask for my address or why I was fired from my last job. She just hired me on the spot. Holy crap, unbelievable."

Hearing this, Roger instinctively said: "Uh… could this job be too good to be true?"

"What job isn't hard? Worst case, I just take care of more elderly people." Zoe didn't catch his implication, continuing on her own:

"You know what? The wage is eight dollars an hour, plus all kinds of benefits—better than my last job! It's amazing, I can finally start paying off my loans."

Hearing Zoe so happy, Roger didn't say anything to dampen her spirits, only replied: "That's great news—you'll probably find a new apartment soon."

"Exactly, you're right—I should rent an apartment. Even though I don't have money yet, with a job, I should be able to convince a landlord."

Zoe paused, then continued: "Roger, when are you looking for a job? You might find one soon, and your life could get back on track! Wouldn't that be better?"

"I will." Roger said: "I'll start looking in a couple days."

"You better."

After chatting a bit longer, Roger hung up and shrugged.

In fact, he thought Zoe's job sounded suspicious.

In Meilijian, employers care most about applicants' home addresses—because being able to receive mail shows whether you have a fixed residence, and whether you can repay loans and bear risk.

At the same time, the neighborhood where you live reflects your class and situation.

A reputable neighborhood gives applicants a huge advantage.

Conversely, if someone lives in a bad neighborhood, employers often refuse to hire them.

Who knows if you'll get shot by gangsters at home one day? That's an unstable factor for work.

Someone like Zoe, who can't provide an address, is even more terrifying—because if she causes an accident on the job and flees, you can't find her.

If you were the boss, you wouldn't tolerate a ticking bomb inside your company.

So Roger was pessimistic about Zoe's job—she'd probably get fired within two days.

As for whether he should look for a job, as Zoe suggested?

Roger could only shake his head.

His difficulty finding work was far greater than Zoe's.

First, he had no special skills, no good education, and no work history.

What job could he apply for?

Who would hire him?

He could only take odd jobs, and still be suspected of being an illegal immigrant.

He didn't believe he could find a job that didn't require a home address.

Although he had only been here a few short days, Roger had gradually come to understand why most of the homeless smoked leaves and popped enhancers.

Because they couldn't see a single glimmer of light or hope; the situation they faced was like being sealed inside an iron box layer by layer, making it so stifling they couldn't breathe.

"Good thing I have the system."

Roger downed the mineral water in his hand in one gulp, planning to head to Old John Arcade to play a pinball machine.

But just then, his phone rang again.

Only this time, the caller was Juan.

"Hey, Juan, what's up?" The man's tone was very light.

But the next second, his speech suddenly became rapid:

"What?"

"Jose is missing!"