Under the ground the water makes a continuous hiss, always on the same note. The hole has been open for an hour. At the bottom the water seeps up, reaches a finger's depth and stays there. Around the point where it seeps up the earth is darker and comes away in flakes. To one side the chamber stands open and the cast-iron lid rests on edge against the curb.

The mains pipe enters the chamber. It is black, polyethylene, and on the rim, where it enters, runs a ring of the company's blue paint, two fingers wide. On top, where the gravel passes, the paint is worn. Underneath it is whole.

Ramón Cifuentes bends down and rests his thumb on the ring. He slides it to where the paint ends. After the paint the thumb finds the step of the joint. After the step the pipe is no longer the company's.

He stands up. The gloves he keeps tucked in his belt and does not put on: he puts them on only to close up. The shovel lies flat on the edge of the hole, never driven into the earth, and the handle is shiny in one spot only.

The water comes from past the step.

The rectangle of asphalt over the hole was still new this morning. Ramón closed it two weeks ago and tamped it one pass more than necessary, because the bread truck comes through there at six. Now the street is open in the same spot, one meter further along.

Ezequiel asks how long it will take. Ramón says twenty minutes. Ezequiel asks if the pipe is the company's. Ramón says that with the truck it's three hours, and that closing up now and coming back tomorrow is half a day.

At the edge of the hole there are four people. The woman who called the first time and then the second holds her shopping bag and does not set it down. A boy films with his phone, moves one step and films again. In front of the green gate the water that has been running out for days has eaten the edge of the asphalt, and under the edge you can see the gravel.

On the hood of the van is the work report, the pen under the clip so it won't roll. The first box says external network. The second says up to the chamber. Ramón has to check the box, write the time, close up and run the roller before seven, when the depot closes.

The two boxes are true. The stretch the company is responsible for reaches the chamber. That stretch is intact. The water rises one meter further on, under the sidewalk of the building. From there it runs down into the street and carries away the edge.

Ramón measures the meter with the shovel, from the chamber to the point where the sidewalk is wet. The shovel covers it all, from the blade to the grip. He lays it flat and leaves it there. Then he climbs down into the hole.

The phone rings on the hood at ten past six. Ramón climbs out of the hole. His boots are full up to the ankle. He keeps them full: emptying them is one more step.

It is the gerente. He does not raise his voice.

"We help the neighborhood associations with internal leaks, it's not our direct responsibility."

Ramón looks at the bottom. The water rises from below and stops at the same height. The earth at the edge falls back in on its own and covers the point where his thumb passed an hour ago.

"Two weeks ago that pipe was the same."

Then the second.

"If you dig in there and the wall gives way, the company pays, and the one who gets cut is you. Five crews, Ramón. If you do it today, tomorrow they all have to do it, and someone we won't get to."

Ramón looks at the shovel lying flat on the edge. Twenty minutes. The gerente says it isn't the time.

Ramón sets the phone down on the hood, next to the report. He goes back to the edge and climbs down.

The shovel lies flat over the chamber. Ramón holds it still. The earth falls back in.

Then he moves the shovel one meter past the chamber and drives it into the earth.

He digs forty centimeters. The pipe that comes out is narrower and has no blue ring. Ramón shuts the valve upstream. He cuts the cracked stretch with the hacksaw. He cleans the two ends with emery cloth. He slips on the repair clamp, centers it on the crack and tightens the bolts with the ratchet wrench, half a turn at a time. He reopens the valve.

The hiss under the ground changes. It gets higher. Then shorter. Then it is not there.

On the hood the report has to be filled in all the same. Ramón dries his hands on his trousers, takes the pen and checks the first box. On the blank line below he writes where he worked: one meter past the chamber, the building's pipe, clamp. Then he writes the time. Six forty.

Ezequiel holds the shovel by the blade and watches him write. He says nothing.

The woman who had called comes up to the hood. It is him she thanks. Then she asks him for his phone number. Ramón dictates it and she writes it on her palm with the report pen, which she hands back wet.

Before throwing the earth back in, Ramón climbs down one last time. With the corner of the shovel he scores a mark on the edge of the pipe, at the point where the network ends. He climbs back up.

Ezequiel sends the earth in. Ramón wets it and runs the roller, back and forth, in layers. At seven twenty they lay the cold asphalt and tamp it down.

The new rectangle is darker than the rest of the street.