I washed my hands at the sink in the corridor of the Rescue 1122 center in Buner, under the tap to the left of the reagent cabinet, and the water coming out was lukewarm because on the morning of the eleventh of May two thousand twenty-six the center's boiler was still working, and the white marble dust that had stayed under my fingernails came away slowly and mixed with Nawab's blood that had stayed on my right wrist where I had held pressure while we hoisted him onto the stretcher, and there was also the sweat from the undershirt beneath the orange jumpsuit, and all of this came away, and I was not thinking any of the things I thought later.

It was thirteen twelve. I was returning from the Bampokha quarry. Five workers extracted alive, all five transported to PHQ Daggar, ambulance departed at twelve forty. The team had come back behind me on foot from the van. Faryad was carrying the kit case, Tariq was carrying the Husqvarna chainsaw, the other two new boys from the center were chatting about the drama serial they had watched the night before. I was not chatting. I went to the paperwork counter.

The INCIDENT REPORT form we use is in English and Urdu, two columns. I had the names of the five written in the notebook from my side pocket: Niaz Muhammad of Swat, Gul Syed of Aligram, Inaam of Gagra Buner, Faryad of Buner city, Nawab Khan of Swabi. I transferred the five names onto the form, one below the other, with the blue pen from the desk, and in the line "Outcome" I wrote "Rescue successful, 5/5 alive transported to PHQ Daggar." I signed. They call me Aziz and this is my name.

I went to the kitchen. The rice had been ready for half an hour, the dal was lukewarm, Faryad had set the table for five but the two new boys ate outside in the courtyard. I sat at the long table. Tariq said "good work boss" and I nodded. I telephoned my wife Salma. I told her only that I had returned and that I would rest before the afternoon shift. Salma asked me if I had eaten, I told her yes even though I was just beginning to eat. She hung up.

The central telephone rang at thirteen forty-six. It was PHQ Daggar. The voice was Dr. Imran's, I have known him for four years. He told me "Aziz bhai, the patient Nawab Khan, internal injuries, he didn't make it, death at thirteen forty-six." I said "shukria." He also told me "the father is arriving from Swabi in the afternoon." I said "shukria" a second time. I hung up.

I went to the counter. The form I had filled out was in the report register, second sheet of the green folder "May 2026." I found it. I opened it. The blue signature was at the bottom, my five lines above. I opened the pen holder. I pulled out a black Pilot permanent ink pen, the kind we use for addenda because blue gets confused with the original signature. Below my signature, I wrote: "Addendum — thirteen forty-six hours: patient Nawab Khan deceased at PHQ Daggar from internal injuries. Team recovered alive. Survival reclassified: 4 of 5." Below, a second signature with the same black pen.

I closed the register. I put it back on the shelf, in its place, between the April register and the May shift notebook.

I went to the archive. The archive is three metal shelving units against the wall of the back room, above a radiator that in May is off. The folder I was looking for is "Rescue 2026 — Buner / Khyber Pakhtunkhwa," third shelf row from the top, third unit from the left. I pulled out the yellow carbon copy of the report from the new register I had just closed. I opened the folder. I inserted the sheet in chronological order, after the 7th of May (minor landslide on the Pacha Kalay road, "Rescue successful 3/3") and before the 12th of May which was tomorrow.

While I was inserting it I looked at the other reports of the month. Ten interventions in May before mine. Seven with "Rescue successful 5/5." One with "Rescue successful 3/3." One with "Rescue successful 3/4." Two with "Rescue successful 0/2." My new report, the eleventh of May, said "Rescue successful 4/5." I placed it in its numerical position in the sequence.

I closed the folder. I returned to the counter. The shift register was open to my page. I did not write anything. I thought of the row of the month's reports that now I had before my eyes without having to reopen the folder: the seven five-of-fives from the clean rescues, the three-of-three from the Pacha Kalay landslide, the two zero-of-twos from the mountains we had not reached in time, the three-of-four from the fire of the thirtieth of April that had spilled into May, and my four-of-five from the eleventh. It was the only datum of the month that had been corrected after the fact. It was the first number of a sequence that began in May of two thousand twenty-six and that will continue until the day I stop filling out the reports. I went to rest before the afternoon shift.