I Work as a Garbage Collector. There are 6 STRANGE Rules

My name is Brian Walker. I work as a garbage collector for Marion, Ohio Sanitation, Route 7 out of Marion, Ohio. It's not too complicated. You show up before sunrise, you ride the back of a truck, and you throw whatever people leave at the curb into a steel box that crushes it down until there's room for more. Most days, that's all it is. I have had a bunch of jobs over the years. Warehouse work, a few construction sites, one stretch driving a plow truck during the winter. Nothing really stuck. This did. The pay is steady, the hours are predictable, and once you get used to the routine, it's almost automatic. My shift starts at 4.30 in the morning. The yard sits on the edge of town, past a row of auto shops and a fenced lot full of old equipment. When you pull in, the place is already alive. Several engines warming up, floodlights buzzing overhead. Trucks lined up in rows, each one assigned to a route. I am assigned to truck 12. It's a rear loader with a denny tailgate, a compactor that hits harder than it should, and a hydraulic system that jerks if you don't ease it. You learn its quirks fast, or it'll throw you off the back step. My driver is Ethan Cooper. He's been doing this for over a decade. He doesn't talk much, doesn't waste time, and doesn't really make mistakes. First thing he told me was to keep one hand on the rail at all times and not to jump off the truck until it's fully stopped. That's how most of the job goes. Simple rules, practical stuff. You follow them, you're fine. Our route starts in the residential blocks near downtown. Tight streets, parked cars, bins lined up along the curb, and then it opens up into the outer neighborhoods and after that, turns rural. Longer drives between stops, fewer people, and quieter roads. By the end of the route, you're out past where the sidewalks disappear. Houses sit further back from the road, some look lived in and some don't. The work itself is repetitive. You hop off the back, grab the bags or tip the bin, toss everything into the truck, then step back on before the driver rolls forward. The compactor cycles every few minutes, pushing everything down into the body so there's room for the next load. You stop noticing what you're picking up after a while. You zone out. All feels the same through gloves, you know. Weight, shape, movement. You grab it, you throw it, you move on. That's how it's supposed to be. Before my first shift, I had to check in with a route manager. His name is Daniel Brooks. He handles scheduling, assignments, maintenance reports, everything that keeps the routes running. He walked me through the standard stuff first. Safety procedures, pick up schedules, put a call if something breaks down, and then he handed me a single sheet of paper. It wasn't part of the normal paperwork. No logo, no header. Just a laminated page with six lines printed on it. The plastic was worn, edges smoothed down like it'd been passed around for a long time. Keep this with you, he said. A glance at it. Each line was labeled as rule. I figured it was just extra guidelines, stuff specific to the route, maybe things that had caused problems before. Read it before you start, he added. I nodded and slipped it into my jacket pocket. He held my eye for a second longer. Follow it. And that was it. I didn't think much of it at the time. First day in a new job, you're focused on not messing up the basics. Stay balanced on the truck. Don't miss stops. Don't get in the way of the truck, you know. That kind of thing. We pulled out of the yard just before five. Cold dark. Headlights cutting through the street. Engine steady under us. Ethan didn't turn on the radio. Just drove. The first part of the route was exactly what I expected. Bins lined up at the curb. Tied bags, you know, the usual thing. I got into the rhythm fast. Step, lift, throw. Step, lift, throw. By the time the sky started to lighten, my arms were already sore and my gloves were streaked with grime. All day. We finished just before noon and headed back to the yard. I climbed down from the truck, stretched out my shoulders, and I pulled my jacket tighter against the wind. Ethan shut off the engine and sat there for a second. You read the sheet? He asked. I shook my head. No, not yet. He nodded. Read it, he said. And then he got out of the truck and walked off without another word. I stood there for a moment, listening to the ticking of the engine cooling down, and then I reached into my pocket and I pulled out that laminated sheet Daniel Brooks had given me that morning. Six lines. I looked down at him, standing there in the middle of the yard, and read them for the first time. Here's the first one. Number one. Never open a trash bag that is tied with a yellow rope. That was the first line on the sheet. Not be careful, not use proper lifting technique. Just that. Never open a trash bag that is tied with yellow rope. I remember reading it twice, standing there in the yard, trying to figure out what kind of situation would even require that to be written down. People tie bags all kinds of ways. This ties knots, duct tape if they're lazy. I'd never seen anyone use rope, let alone bright yellow rope. I figured it was one of those things you pick up on certain rounds, I don't know. Maybe somebody had tried to secure construction debris or something heavy. Maybe it was a safety thing. Either way, it didn't seem like a big deal. The next morning, I saw one. We were about halfway through the residential section, early enough that most people were still inside. Lights on in the houses, coffee brewing, you know, that kind of thing. The bins were lined up along the curb like usual. I hopped off the back of the truck as we slowed, grabbed the first bin, tipped it in, and then I stepped over to the next one. The lid was heavier than normal. When I lifted it, I saw the bag right away. Black plastic, thick, not the cheap kind, and wrapped around the top, tight, multiple loops, was a length of bright yellow rope. Not tied like a knot, wrapped over and over again like whoever did it didn't want it coming loose under any circumstances. I just stood there looking at it, and then I reached in. The rope was rough under my gloves, thicker than it looked. I grabbed the bag at the top and tried to lift it, and it didn't budge. Not at first, anyway. I adjusted my grip and pulled harder, and it came up slow, like it was stuck to the bottom of the bin or weighed down with something real solid. Not loose trash, not food waste, something dense. I got it over the lid of the bin, and I held it there for a second, balancing the weight. Don't. Ethan's voice cut through the cab. I looked up. He had his arm resting out the window, watching me. That's one of them. I glanced back down at the bag. Huh? Don't open it. Don't mess with it. Just throw it, he said. I frowned. I wasn't going to open it. Good. Don't, he said. There was something in his tone that made me stop asking questions. I turned back to the truck, but I heaved the bag into the rear compartment, and it hit harder than it should have. A solid, heavy thud against the middle. For a second nothing happened, and then the bag shifted. It wasn't like it settled or the weight redistributed. It pushed outward. A slow, uneven movement from inside the plastic. I froze, and it stopped. I told myself it was just the way it landed, something inside sliding into place, that's all. The compactor kicked on. The hydraulic system whined as the blade came down, pushing the pile forward. The bag disappeared under pressure with everything else, flattening out of sight. I stood there for a second longer, and grabbed the next bin. Step, lift, throw. By the time we finished that street, I'd already convinced myself I imagined it. At the next stop, I climbed back onto the rear step as Ethan pulled forward. You'll see one of those, he said. The truck rolled over a crack in the road, the whole frame rattling under me. Wind pushed against my jacket as we picked up speed. Just don't open them, he said. How was it? We moved on, and a few streets later I saw another one. This time the bin was already tipped slightly, like someone had set it down wrong. The lid was half open, just enough to see the top of the bag inside. Same thing. Black plastic, tight wrap, yellow rope. I didn't touch it. I closed the lid and stepped back onto the truck without saying anything. Ethan didn't look at me, he just drove. We skipped that one completely. Well, the rest of the route went normal, or normal enough that I stopped thinking about it. The work pulls you back into rhythm fast. You don't have time to stand there analyzing things, you can just move. By the end of my shift, my arms were shot, my shoulders tight, and my mind was already shifting toward getting home, eating, and not thinking about trash for the rest of the day. But that night, I kept thinking about the way the bag moved. The next morning I got my answer. We were running the same route, same order, same timing. The streets were quiet, the air a little colder than the day before. Everything felt exactly the same. Until we hit the third block, there was a bin sitting out by itself at the curb. No house lights on behind it, no car in the driveway, and just the bin. The lid was closed. As I stepped off the truck, I noticed something else. There was no frost on it. Every other bin on the street had a thin layer of white across the top from the overnight cold. This one didn't. I walked up to it and lifted the lid. Inside was a single bag, black plastic, yellow rope, tighter than the others. Wrapped so many times around the top that it dug into the plastic, cutting deep lines into it. I didn't reach in, I just stood there looking at it. Leave it. Ethan's voice again. I didn't argue. I closed the lid and turned back. And as I stepped away, I heard something. A dull, soft thud from inside the bin. I stopped. And then I kept walking. I climbed back onto the truck and grabbed the rail. Ethan didn't look at me this time, he just pulled away. We drove in silence for a few minutes, and then he said, The guy before you didn't listen. I kept my eyes on the road behind us. Yeah, what happened? He opened one. Ethan began. He cut the rope. Said he thought it was something valuable. Dools maybe. Something someone didn't want picked up by mistake. I didn't say anything. He opened it right there on the curb. Ethan continued. Middle of the route. What was in it? Oh, I didn't see. I didn't get close enough. I felt my grip tighten on the rail. What do you mean? I was in the cab. He continued. He was behind the truck. I heard him drop the bag, heard him say something, not loud, just confused. And then I heard the plastic tear. I got out, walked around, and he wasn't there. What about the bag? I asked. Gone. He said. We didn't talk after that. And the rest of the route felt different. Every bend I opened, I checked the top first. No rope. We finished and headed back to the yard. Same as always. But I wasn't thinking about the job anymore. I was thinking about the way that first bag had moved when I threw it in. And the sound I heard in that second bend. And what happens when you cut something open that wasn't meant to be opened? After that day, I understood something I hadn't before. Some of the things we pick up on that route. They're not trash. Rule two. If a trash bin is already in the street, don't move it. That one didn't make sense to me first either. People leave bins in the street all the time. They forget to pull them back. Or the wind knocks them over or somebody drags them out too far. Half the job is dealing with stuff like that. Adjusting, moving things where they need to be so you can do the pickup clean. So when I read that rule, I figured it was just another safety thing, you know? Don't drag bins around in traffic. Don't put yourself in a bad position behind the truck. That kind of logic. It didn't sound like anything serious. The first time I saw one, it didn't even register. We were heading into the rural stretch, past the line of the close houses. The road narrowed. No center line. Just cracked asphalt and ditches on both sides. Road stretched out, low and empty. With fences that look like they hadn't been fixed in years, about a mile in, even slowed down, there was a trash bin sitting in the middle of the road. Not tipped over or knocked sideways. Just placed perfectly upright in the dead middle of the road. Lid closed. No house nearby. The closest one was set back at least a hundred yards down a gravel driveway. No lights on. No movement. I hopped off the back of the truck and started walking toward it. Leave it. He said. I stopped halfway there and turned back. It's in the road. I began. We're supposed to clear these. Not that one. I looked at the bin again. There's just a bin. Your county issued plastic. Same size and color and wheels. What's the issue? I asked. Ethan leaned slightly out of the window, resting his arm on the frame. Get back in the truck. I hesitated for a second longer. And then I turned around and stepped back onto the rear platform. Ethan didn't drive around it right away. He slowed, eased the truck slightly to the left, and then passed it with just enough space that the side mirror cleared as we went by and glanced down at it. I think I saw the lid shift just a little. Like something inside it pressed upward and let go. I faced forward again. We didn't talk about it. The next few stops were normal. Bins at the curb, tied bags, nothing unusual. I kept thinking about that one sitting out in the middle of the road. It didn't look like it had been blown there. Looked like it had been put there. On the way back through that same stretch, I looked for it again and it was gone. I figured somebody had moved it. Maybe the homeowner came and dragged it back in. Maybe another truck cleared it. That's what I told myself. The second time I saw one, I understood the rule better. It was three days later. Same route, same stretch road, only this time it was closer. We turned onto a narrow lane that cut between two fields, no houses for a good quarter mile, just open land and a line of trees running along the right side. The bin was dead center in the lane. Same as before. Upright lid closed, Ethan slowed again. I didn't move this time. I stayed on the step and watched. We rolled closer, the engine idling low. Something was different about this one. The plastic looked cleaner. Not new exactly, but not worn down like the others. No scratches or dirt streaks, just a smooth dark surface. As we got within about 10 feet, the lid shifted slightly. Just enough to create a thin gap and I saw darkness inside. No bags or visible trash, just empty space. And then something shifted beneath the darkness. The lid dropped back down. Ethan didn't stop. He steered the truck around it again, keeping a wider distance this time. The tire is rolled out of the edge of the dirt shoulder as we passed. I kept my eyes on it. As the back of the truck cleared the bin, one of the wheels turned slowly, just a few inches and then it stopped. I gripped the rail tighter. Did you see that? I asked. Ethan nodded. Yeah, that's why we don't touch him. What is it? I asked. He didn't answer. We drove on and I didn't ask again. If you hear knocking from inside the compactor, do not stop the truck. You know, the compactor is loud. Supposed to be. Metal, hydraulics, pressure. Everything about it makes noise. Grinding, crushing, shifting. You get used to it fast. After a few days, your brain filters it out completely. So the idea that you'd hear something specific, something you could pick out from all that noise didn't seem realistic, at least not at first. The first time it happened, I didn't even recognize it. We were about halfway through the route, just finishing up the outer neighborhoods. The truck was already more than half full. Bag stacked high in the rear compartment, compressed down every few stops to make space. I was on the back step, one hand on the rail, the other resting near the edge of the hopper, standard position. Then slowed for the next stop. I hopped off, cleared two bins, tossed everything in, and then stepped back up. As we pulled away, the compactor kicked on. The blade came down, pushing everything forward with that familiar heavy shove. Metal against metal, pressure building, then releasing. Normal. And then I heard it. A soft knock, almost loud under the sound of a machine. I didn't react. Probably just something shifting inside. Loose object hitting the wall happens all the time. We rolled forward another 20 feet, and that knock came again. This time I noticed it, not because it was loud, because it didn't match anything else. I leaned slightly toward the back, listening. Just the hum of the engine and the rattle of the truck over the road. I shook it off. Next stop, step, lift, throw. Back on the truck, and we pulled forward again. And then it came again. Three knocks in a row. Clear, separated. Not metal shifting or debris falling, it was three knocks. I froze. The compactor wasn't running. The truck wasn't hitting bumps. There was nothing that should have made that sound. I leaned back, looking into the rear compartment. All I could see was crushed trash. Flatten bags, cardboard, loose debris packed together under pressure. No movement or gaps. Nothing had a place. Stay up there, Ethan said. I hadn't realized I'd shifted my stance. You hear that? I asked. Yeah, I hear it, he said. What is it? Ethan didn't look back. Don't worry about it. Hey, that's not an answer, I said. It's not your problem, he replied. There was another knock, single this time, louder. Right behind me. I turned. The sound had come from the upper section of the compactor, not the lower press area, higher than it should have been. Hey, I'm checking it, I interrupted. I walked to the back of the truck. The hopper was still partially open. The last load sitting just inside, not yet compacted. I leaned in slightly and nothing. Just bags. Then the knock came again. Right behind the inner wall, close enough that I could pinpoint it. I reached for the control lever. Brian. Ethan's voice again, different. Don't. I just want to see. Don't. Another knock. And then a voice. Hey. I froze. It came from inside the compactor. Hey. It said again. Ethan was out of the cab now, walking toward me. Get back on the truck. Did you hear that? I asked. Yeah. Someone's in there. The voice came again. Please. Something about that word hit different. Don't. Ethan said. The voice changed on. Brian. I stopped. Get back on the truck. Ethan said. And I didn't argue this time. I stepped back onto the platform. Then we pulled forward. There was no more knocking after that. We finished the route without another incident. When we got back to the yard, I didn't move right away. I just stood there on the back step, staring at the compactor. Ethan shut off the engine. You stopped. He said. Don't do that again. He opened the door and got out. I stayed where I was. After a minute, I climbed down and walked to the back of the truck. I reached up and hit the release. The compactor opened. The load shifted slightly as the pressure released. I stepped back. Nothing inside looked out of place. Just trash. There was no way anything could have been inside. Rule four. Do not collect trash from the house on Route 7 marked with a blue X. That one stood out immediately because it was the only rule that mentioned a specific place instead of a general situation you might run into anywhere on the route. Up until that point, everything had been about objects or sounds or things that could happen during the job, but this one pointed directly at a single location like it had a history behind it. I didn't ask about it right away, mostly because I hadn't seen anything like that yet and I didn't want to start sounding like I didn't understand how the job worked. You pick things up as you go, and if something matters enough, someone usually tells you before you make a mistake. It showed up about a week later toward the end of the route when we were already running the same stretch and the houses were spaced far enough apart that each stop felt separate from the last. The road curved slightly through a patch of older properties, the kind with long driveways, aging fences, and buildings that had been standing long enough to lean in small ways you wouldn't notice unless you looked carefully. Ethan slowed the truck before we even reached the driveway, which was unusual because he normally kept a steady pace unless there was something directly blocking the road or forcing him to adjust. I stepped off the back automatically and started toward the curb, expecting to grab the bin like any other stop. And then I saw the mailbox. It had a blue X spray painted across the front, thick lines crossing corner to corner in a way that didn't look accidental or decorative. The paint had dried unevenly, dripping slightly down the sides, like it had been done quickly but deliberately. I stopped walking and looked back at the truck. Ethan was already watching me. That's the one, he said. I followed his gaze back to the property. The house sat about 40 yards off the road, partially hidden behind a line of overgrown bushes that had spread out past whatever boundary they were supposed to stay within. The windows were covered, either boarded or dark enough that I couldn't see and sign, and the front door was closed with no visible damage or sign of recent use. The trash bin was sitting at the edge of the driveway. Lit closed, positioned exactly where he'd expected it to be for a normal pickup. Just leave it. Ethan added. I nodded, but I didn't move right away. Because everything about the setup looked completely ordinary, except for the blue X on the mailbox and the fact that we were being told to skip it. There was no visible damage, no unusual markings on the bin itself. Nothing that would explain why this one stop was different. I walked a few steps closer before stopping again, keeping enough distance that I wasn't actually touching anything, but close enough to get a better look. And that's when the door opened. I didn't see anyone step out. I didn't hear any footsteps on the porch. But I knew the door hadn't been opened before. Brian, Ethan said. I didn't respond right away, because I was still looking at the doorway. The door stayed partially open, and I thought I could see barely a tall figure behind it. It almost looked like they were smiling at me. I took a step back. Leave it, Ethan said. And this time I didn't hesitate. I turned around, walked back to the truck, and I climbed down to the rear step without looking back again. As we pulled away, I kept my eyes forward and focused on the road ahead, but I could feel the presence of that house sitting behind us. We didn't talk about it on the way out of that stretch, and Ethan didn't offer any explanation for why the rule existed or what had happened there before I showed up. When we got back to the yard, I took the sheet out again and looked at the fourth line, reading it slower. Do not collect trash from the house on Route 7 marked with a blue X. I folded the sheet and put it back in my jacket, because I didn't need any more detail than that to understand the rule. Some stops, they're not part of the job. And whatever is inside that house, I think it's evil. Ready to launch your business? Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify is specially designed to help you start, run, and grow your business with easy customizable themes that let you build your brand, marketing tools that get your products out there, integrated shipping solutions that actually save you time, from startups to scale-ups, online, in-person, and on-the-go. Shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you. Sign up for your $1 a month trial at Shopify.com. Rule 5. If a trash can follows the truck, don't look back. That one didn't make sense in a practical way, but by the point I'd already stopped expecting these rules to follow normal logic or fit into anything I could explain with the job itself. You read something like that and you assume it's, I don't know, metaphorical or exaggerated. Something written down after a weird incident that got retold enough times to sound stranger than it really was. The first time it happened, we were finishing the last stretch before heading back toward town and the road was empty enough that you could hear the truck echo off the treeline on both sides. I was on the rear step like usual, one hand on the rail, watching the road behind us out of habit. And that's when I heard the wheels. That the truck's wheels. Something lighter. Uneven. Looking over the road at a different rhythm that didn't match our speed or the surface beneath us. I ignored it at first because there always sounds out there. Branches, debris, loose gravel. But this stayed consistent longer than it should have. Then Ethan spoke without turning around. Don't look back. He said. I didn't ask why. I just kept my eyes forward and focused on the edge of the road, counting the fence posts as we passed them to give myself something steady to track. The sound stayed with us though. Matching our pace. After a few seconds, curiosity got the better of me. I didn't turn all the way. Just enough to glance over my shoulder. And a trash can was rolling behind the truck. Same size, same type as the ones we pick up all day. But there was nobody pushing it and no slope in the road that would explain that movement. I faced forward again immediately. Don't look at it. I just looked for a second. I said. That's too much. We kept moving. The sound didn't change. It was still there. Still rolling. I kept my eyes forward, but I could feel it behind us now. After a minute, the sound stopped all at once. No slowing or final roll. Just silence. I didn't turn around again. We finished the route without seeing it a second time and Ethan didn't bring it up again once we got back to the yard. There was no explanation offered and no follow up. Which told me absolutely nothing. All I know is that if a trash can follows you, don't look back. Rule 6. Never finish the route after sunset. That was the last rule on the sheet and it was the only one that tied everything together in a way that felt like it had less to do with individual situations and more to do with the route itself. Up until that point, every rule had been about something specific. Bags, bins, sounds, a house. But this one was about timing and it didn't explain why that timing mattered. For the first couple of weeks, we never came close to breaking it. The route was structured so that we were done well before sunset, even in the winter when the daylight dropped off early. Ethan kept the steady pace, never rushed, never slowed down more than necessary and we always made it back to the yard with time to spare. That changed on a Friday when we got a late start. One of the trucks had gone down in the yard that morning and everything backed up while they reassigned routes and moved equipment around. By the time we pulled out, we were already behind schedule and Ethan didn't say much about it. But I could tell he was paying closer attention to the clock than usual. He moved faster through the residential section, skipping anything that wasn't clearly set out and keeping stops tight. The outer neighborhoods took longer than expected and by the time we hit the rural stretch, the sun was already low enough that the light had started to flatten out across the fields. I noticed it before Ethan said anything. It was late. I know, he replied. He didn't speed up, which felt wrong in that moment because every instinct you have in a situation like that tells you to move faster and make up time. Instead he kept the same pace, same spacing between stops like he was trying to maintain control instead of catch up. Well the first sign that something was off, it came when we turned down to that last stretch of the route. Every house had its trash out. Not some of them, all of them. Bins lined up evenly along the road. Lids closed, positioned at the exact same distance from the curb like somebody had measured it out and set them exactly in place. The road had been quiet earlier that week, with a few houses skipped and others with nothing set out at all, but now it was completely full. I stepped off the truck and I walked to the first bin. The air felt different. Still, not quiet in a normal way, but heavy. All the bags were stacked perfectly neatly. Each one tied tight. No loose ends, no irregular shapes pressing against the plastic. They looked arranged. I didn't question it. I grabbed the first bag and tossed it into the truck. It landed with a dull weight that didn't match how it looked. Keep moving. We went down the line, stop by stop, clearing bins faster than usual, but not rushing enough to lose control of what we were doing. The sun dipped lower, the light shifting from gray to orange, and then fading into something darker as the horizon swallowed the last of it. By the time we reached the midpoint of that stretch, the sun was gone. Ethan stopped the truck. Get on. I'm already on, I replied. Well stay on. I held the rail and looked ahead. The rest of the road was still lined with bins, all of them full. We didn't move forward right away. Ethan sat there for a second, engine idling, his hands resting on the wheel without tightening or adjusting. You know, they shouldn't be all out, I said. I know. Then why are they? He didn't respond. I looked at the nearest bin again, and the lid shifted. It lifted slightly, and then it settled back into place, like something inside had pressed upward and released. I turned my head toward the house behind it. The front door was open, not wide, but just enough to show it wasn't closed anymore. There was someone standing there, far enough back that I couldn't see details, but close enough that I could tell they weren't moving. Ethan, I said. I see it, he replied. I looked at the next house, same thing. Door open, figures standing inside, still. They look like zombies, I said. The word came out flat, like it'd been sitting there waiting for me to say it. Ethan nodded. I looked back at the bins. Every single one of them shifted. Lids lifting, not all the way, just enough to show movement underneath. The bags inside pressed upward, stretching the plastic in slow, uneven shapes that didn't match anything that should have been inside them. We're not finishing, Ethan said. No, we're not, I agreed. He put the truck in gear, and we drove out of there fast. As we turned, I looked down the rest of the road. Every house and every doorway had a figure standing inside, and all of them were facing the road. The bins closest to us tipped slightly, not falling over, just leaning forward, like something inside was shifting its weight toward the truck. I didn't look any longer than I had to. We straightened out and we drove back the way we came. Nobody followed, no bins rolled. No knocking came from the compactor. Everything stayed exactly where it was. Thankfully. Later, I took the sheet out and read the last line again. Never finished the route after sunset. And now I knew why. Zombies. Well, after that night, we never ran late again. Didn't matter what broke down in the yard, how backed up the schedule it got, or how many routes had to be reassigned. With the timing, even came close. Even would cut sections without hesitation. Entire streets would get skipped, bins left untouched, and nobody ever questioned it. I kept working around, same truck and stops, but I stopped treating any part of it like routine. I checked every bag before I touched it. I avoided anything that didn't sit right. I didn't look back when I wasn't supposed to. And I never, ever stayed out past sunset again. A few weeks later, they signed a new guy to cover a second truck on our route. Mark Sullivan. Mid-twenties. Talkative. The kind of guy who asked questions about everything because he assumed there was always a reasonable answer behind it. First morning I saw him. He was joking with one of the drivers, laughing about the smell. I didn't say it wasn't as bad as people made it out to be. I watched Daniel Brooks hand him the same laminated sheet, same worn edges and six rules. Mark looked at it, gave a small grin, and folded it in half like it was just another piece of paper he didn't need. I didn't say anything. You know, there's no way to explain those rules to someone who hasn't seen what they're there for. And even if you try, it just sounds like you're messing with them or trying to scare them off. His truck left the yard a few minutes before ours that morning. We crossed paths once on the round, just a quick pass on one of the outer roads. He was riding the back step, one hand on the rail, relaxed like he'd already settled in. He gave a casual wave as he went by. And that was the last time I saw him. By the end of the day, his truck was back in the yard. Engine off, empty. Daniel Brooks walked out, looked at it for a few seconds, and then told maintenance to move it in the line. Later, I found out that apparently Mark had seen something, and he took off running like a bat out of hell. The next morning, Route 7 ran like usual. Ethan drove, I rode the back. We followed the same path, hit the same stops, moved through the same stretches of road without saying much. When we reached the section where Mark had been working the day before, Ethan didn't slow down. I didn't step off the truck. I didn't look inside any of the trash cans. I didn't need to confirm anything. Because by then, I understood something simple about this job. The rules aren't there to make the work easier. They're there so you survive.