By the next morning, Daisy had become invisible.

  Not gone. Not forgotten. Just absorbed.

  Jake noticed it when he walked into the yard and nearly tripped over a clipboard that hadn’t been there the day before. It was clipped to a folding table near the south side, weighted down with a coffee mug that read WORLD’S OKAYEST SUPERVISOR.

  He looked around.

  The yard sounded different. Not quieter exactly, but less strained. Fewer sharp voices. Less of the constant background muttering that came from people doing two jobs at once and pretending it was fine.

  Marisol was already there, talking to a crew lead. She gestured toward the south side with two fingers, said something Jake couldn’t hear, and the crew lead nodded and made a note without arguing.

  Jake waited for someone to say something about yesterday.

  No one did.

  A Parks & Rec worker rolled a cart past him, glanced briefly at Daisy’s powered-down frame, and asked, “You want this over by compost or recycling?”

  “Recycling,” Jake said automatically.

  The worker nodded and kept moving.

  Jake frowned. He’d been expecting… something.

  Applause, maybe. Or at least a comment.

  Instead, the bunny sat exactly where it had stopped, status light dark, looking like it had always belonged there.

  Howard emerged from the office carrying a travel mug and a stack of papers. He didn’t look at Daisy. He didn’t look at Jake.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Morning,” Jake replied, then hesitated. “So… people seem calmer.”

  Howard took a sip of coffee. “They slept.”

  “That’s it?” Jake asked.

  Howard shrugged. “That helps.”

  Jake followed him toward the yard. “I thought there’d be questions.”

  “There were,” Howard said.

  Jake perked up. “Really?”

  Howard glanced at him. “They were boring.”

  Jake deflated slightly. “What kind of boring?”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Scheduling. Coverage. Whether the clipboard needed a weatherproof sleeve.”

  Jake blinked. “Does it?”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  Jake stared at Daisy again. “Nobody’s asking if we can run it again?”

  Howard stopped and looked at him.

  Jake raised his hands. “I mean, I’m not asking. I’m just saying.”

  Howard nodded. “They asked.”

  “And?”

  “And the answer was no.”

  Jake smiled faintly. “Consistent.”

  Howard resumed walking.

  By midmorning, normalization was complete.

  The south-side crew had already adjusted their routes. Someone had taped a handwritten note to the whiteboard inside the office: South run assisted — do not plan around it.

  Below it, in different handwriting, someone had added: But we can if needed.

  That line had been crossed out.

  Jake stood in front of the board for a long moment.

  Trent wandered up beside him. “You know,” he said, “this is how it always happens.”

  Jake glanced at him. “What is?”

  “The thing becoming a thing,” Trent said. “And then becoming not a thing.”

  Jake frowned. “It feels like it should still be a thing.”

  Trent nodded. “That’s the dangerous part.”

  Jake looked back at the board. “People are already adjusting.”

  “Yes,” Trent said. “But notice how.”

  Jake squinted. “They’re not building it into the schedule.”

  “Correct,” Trent said. “They’re treating it like weather.”

  Jake turned. “Weather?”

  “Might rain,” Trent said. “Might not. You bring a jacket. You don’t redesign the city.”

  Jake considered that. “Howard did that on purpose.”

  Trent smiled slightly. “Howard does most things on purpose.”

  At lunch, someone tried to be clever.

  Jake was standing near the vending machines when a Parks & Rec intern he didn’t recognize leaned over and said, “So… if the bunny’s free this afternoon—”

  Jake didn’t even think.

  “No,” he said.

  The intern blinked. “I was just—”

  “Permission, not restoration,” Jake said.

  The intern stared at him.

  Jake winced. “Sorry. That came out… official.”

  The intern nodded slowly. “Right. Okay. Just checking.”

  As the intern walked away, Jake realized his heart was pounding.

  He hadn’t expected to be the one enforcing it.

  Howard, watching from the doorway, saw the whole exchange.

  He didn’t comment.

  Later that afternoon, Marisol stopped by Jake’s desk.

  “It’s holding,” she said.

  Jake looked up. “The backlog?”

  “Yes. Barely. But barely is enough.”

  She hesitated. “People asked if we’d expand it.”

  Jake nodded. “Let me guess.”

  “I told them no,” she said.

  Jake smiled. “Good.”

  Marisol studied him. “You sounded convincing.”

  Jake laughed once. “That’s worrying.”

  She smiled faintly. “You’ll get used to it.”

  Jake watched her go, then looked back out at the yard.

  Daisy was still there.

  Still off.

  Still boring.

  A kid on the sidewalk outside the fence stopped and stared at the line of bunnies.

  “Which one’s your favorite?” the kid asked his friend.

  The friend shrugged. “The rusty one.”

  Jake smiled despite himself.

  Near the end of the day, Howard gathered the logs.

  He flipped through them quietly, nodding once or twice. No red marks. No notes in the margins.

  Jake hovered. “So… today went well.”

  Howard didn’t look up. “Today went.”

  Jake tried again. “That’s good, right?”

  Howard closed the folder. “It’s acceptable.”

  Jake sighed. “You really don’t celebrate, do you?”

  Howard considered that. “I do. Quietly.”

  Jake tilted his head. “How?”

  Howard gestured toward the yard. Toward the crews packing up on time. Toward the absence of urgency.

  “Like this,” he said.

  Jake followed his gaze.

  “Oh,” he said.

  They stood there for a moment.

  “Tomorrow?” Jake asked.

  Howard shook his head. “Tomorrow we see if today holds.”

  Jake nodded. “And if it does?”

  Howard met his eyes. “Then we keep not changing anything.”

  Jake laughed softly. “That’s going to drive people crazy.”

  Howard allowed himself a thin smile. “Yes.”

  As they locked up for the night, Jake glanced back one last time at Daisy.

  Still off. Still waiting. Still nothing.

  And somehow, that felt like progress.