Chapter 8 8

The silence in the room stretched tight as a rubber band. The other commissioners looked at their watches, ready to go home.

Arlis smiled. It wasn't an arrogant smile. It was the smile of a mechanic looking at an engine he knew how to fix.

"Commissioner," Arlis said, his voice calm and deep. "These ten minutes aren't a waste. They are an ROI assessment."

Reynolds' eyebrows shot up. ROI. Return on Investment. Business language. Not bureaucrat language.

"The written exam measures memory of the past," Arlis continued. "This interview is about executing the future."

He leaned forward slightly. "And as for why me? Because I'm the only person in this room who noticed the red clay on your shoes."

Reynolds froze. He looked down at his feet. The reddish mud was unmistakable against the black leather.

"That's East District clay," Arlis said. "Specifically, the soil composition found at the stalled revitalization project on 9th Avenue. Which tells me you were there this morning, inspecting the drainage failure."

The air in the room changed instantly. The boredom vanished. Commissioner Lee, a stern woman on the left, sat up straight.

Reynolds looked at Arlis with narrowed eyes. "Continue."

"I've reviewed the initial plans for that sector," Arlis said, a carefully constructed half-truth. "There were concerns raised even then about potential drainage issues during heavy rainfall. The current system is based on outdated weather models. If you don't get ahead of it before the fall rains, the basement of the new library will flood. I remember the damage from the big storm in '02; this would be worse."

Commissioner Lee grabbed her pen. She wrote something down, underlining it twice.

Reynolds leaned back, crossing his arms. "Impressive parlor trick. But let's talk ethics. Scenario: Your superior orders you to implement a policy you know is flawed. What do you do?"

It was the trap question. Say "I refuse," you're insubordinate. Say "I do it," you're a mindless drone.

Arlis didn't hesitate. "I execute the order," he said.

Reynolds frowned.

"But," Arlis added, "while executing, I collect data. If the data proves the policy is working, I learn. If the data proves I'm right and the policy is failing, I bring that data to my superior with a fully formed correction plan. I don't bring problems, Commissioner. I bring solutions backed by evidence."

Reynolds' mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.

For the next fifteen minutes, Arlis was a machine. He didn't just answer questions; he wove a narrative. When Commissioner Vance asked about education, Arlis referenced Vance's own 1998 bill on school funding. When asked about technology, he painted a picture of a digital City Hall that wouldn't exist for another decade.

"Imagine a citizen paying their taxes from their phone," Arlis said. "Imagine permits approved in hours, not weeks."

The commissioners were leaning in now. They were listening.

The assistant opened the door. "Time," she whispered.

Reynolds waved a hand without looking at her. "Let him finish."

Arlis spoke for another two minutes. He concluded with a simple statement. "I'm not here for the stipend. I'm here because this city is sleeping, and I want to help wake it up."

Silence.

Reynolds tapped his pen on the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Mr. Zimmerman," Reynolds said gruffly. "You're twenty-two?"

Arlis nodded. "On paper."

"You don't talk like a twenty-two-year-old."

"My age is twenty-two," Arlis said softly. "My ambition has been waiting a lifetime."

"Thank you, Mr. Zimmerman," Reynolds said.

Arlis stood up. He nodded to the panel and walked out. His legs felt like jelly, but he kept his stride steady until the heavy door clicked shut behind him.