Chapter 4 — The One Who Counts Bridges

Radio Ha Luu's studio is located behind a photocopy shop, on the second floor of a building that used to be a movie theater. The glass door was covered with four layers of tape because the hinge was broken. Every time Yen pulled it out, it made a long hissing noise as if someone was protesting.

“I want to broadcast a four-minute news report,” Yen said, pushing the foam-covered microphone toward Linh An. "Do not say the name of the deceased, do not conclude who is wrong. Just say that the records of the Old Ben Bridge have data that is different from the current status."

Linh An looked at the recorder placed on the table. Since her phone broke down under the bridge, she sent the report and photos to Yen using a removable hard drive. Yen opened them on the station's computer, zooming in on each paint mark and each ramp. She has a way of looking at data like a story: not ignoring the numbers but always looking for the people who will be influenced by it.

“If it happens, how do you think the Infrastructure Department will react?” Linh An asked.

“They will say we are causing confusion.”

“And if not?”

“They will say no one ever asked.”

Yen bent down to the map. “I just need to confirm one point: is that path safe enough to be called a flood exit?”

"It's not enough. The railing is still there, the floor has a sagging area, and the outlet is switched. If someone runs past when the water rises, it's dangerous."

“So why report it?”

"Because the records say it's been dismantled. If people don't know it's there, they won't ask for an inspection. If they know it's there, they can go in and get hurt."

Yen leaned back in the chair. “This is the hardest part of the profession.”

“Which part?”

“Say the right thing without causing others to use it in the wrong way.”

Outside the door, the photocopy machine hums. A customer knocked on the door asking to print urgent documents. Yen turned off the microphone and walked out to explain that the station was recording. When she returned, she brought two cups of kumquat tea, one cup placed in front of Linh An.

“How long have you been working as a mapmaker?”

“Eleven years.”

“Has your map ever caused someone to change their route?”

"Yes. One time the map showed the wrong school gate, several hundred parents ran around the industrial park."

“And what are you afraid of?”

Linh An looked at the river on the screen. “Afraid that if the map is right, people will use it wrongly.”

Yen nodded as if waiting for that sentence. She turned on the recording.

“Let's start with your name,” Yen said. "Not a title. A name."

Linh An said her name, age, and unit. She describes how to take an inventory: identify bridge abutments, load-bearing spans, approaches, gussets and possible salvage points. Yen asked about the difference between data and reality, she answered with the example of the Old Ben Bridge. When asked about the black paint mark, Linh An hesitated.

“I don't know who marked it,” she said. “I just know that mark exists.”

“Can the person who makes the mark be called a ‘counter’?”

“No. That's naming before knowing the truth.”

“What if the listener needs a name to remember?”

"Called people who count. Not a person."

Yen smiled. "Okay. I just saved the news from becoming a ghost story."

They recorded the ending: people do not voluntarily enter the fenced area; Anyone with information about the old bridge can send it to the station; The Infrastructure Committee is invited to respond before distribution. Yen called Mr. Minh's office three times. The first time the phone was busy. The second time the secretary said he was in a meeting. The third time a man picked up the phone and told me to send the question via email.

“Do they know who you are?” Linh An asked.

“If you don't know, it won't be long.”

The news broadcast at 5:30 p.m., between the traffic program and water level forecast. Yen reads in a calm voice, without stressing on the words "secret", did not show photos of the paint marks on air, only said on the Old Wharf that there are differences between the records and the scene, and the safety assessment needs to be done by a specialized agency.

Ten minutes later, the station's desk phone rang. A small businessman named Hao called from the market under Bridge Number Seven. She said her family used that connection every high water season to take children to high ground. She doesn't know which file it is in, she only knows that for many years the work force has been coming to replace the light bulb.

“Can you tell us specifically where that way is?” Yen asked.

"On the north abutment, behind the cement warehouse. But don't say my name."

"Why?"

“Yesterday, the construction site people told anyone who talked to the radio that the shop had to be cleaned before the weekend.”

Yen looked at Linh An. She turned on the recording button, but before asking more questions, Linh An signaled to stop.

"Miss Hao," Linh An said, "are you safe? Is there anyone standing near the shop?"

"There were two people wearing blue shirts. They said they just came to ask."

"Don't say the address directly on the phone. Do you have relatives elsewhere?"

“Has a sister.”

Yen wrote the number on a piece of paper and signaled the front room staff to call a collaborator to take Hao to the station if she wanted. They did not continue the story. Yen only saves the record, encrypts the file and clearly states that it is not allowed to be used.

“What do you think?” she asked after hanging up.

“A news report caused people to be seen.”

“You want to remove the card?”

“I want to change the way the news is reported.”

Yen was silent. Four minutes ago, she was proud of her song without chanting. Now she looked at Hao's name on the screen and saw a real person placed in the middle of a story that she did not choose.

“If you remove it,” Yen said, “they will think the news is wrong.”

“If it stays the same, they will use it to scare people.”

“So what to do?”

"Broadcast a correction to the confirmation. Make it clear that the station has not announced the location of the walkway, does not encourage people to enter the fenced area by themselves. And delete Hao's interview from all drafts."

Yen looked at her. “Are you sure you want to delete?”

“She did not agree.”

“Many newsrooms will keep it as evidence.”

“Evidence is not an excuse to use someone else's voice.”

Yen followed. She called Hao to apologize, explaining that she would not use the story without her consent. The other end of the line was silent for a moment, then she said: "It's good that you apologize. But I still have to close the shop early tonight."

After the correction was broadcast, an email from the Infrastructure Department was sent to the station. Mr. Minh responded that the project does not have a "tenth bridge", all works outside the dossier are temporary items, not considered a way out. He asked the station not to use the phrase "removed from the map" because there is no basis.

Yen read the email out loud, then laughed unhappily. "They don't deny the bridge. They deny the calling."

Linh An took the tablet and opened the image of the paint mark. "The name is important. If it's called a temporary structure, people can remove it without evaluating the path."

“Do you have documents to prove it was used for rescue?”

“There is a map my father left behind, but I don't know where it is.”

“Your father is a bridge measurer?”

“Ever.”

Yen did not ask further. She just pulled out the paper and wrote four lines: "Who creates the appendix? Who edits it? Who benefits? Who is saved if the path remains?"

“Do you know how Mr. Le Quoc Thinh died?” Linh An asked.

"No. But this morning I went to his apartment."

Yen told about Ms. Phuong, the yellow paper and the card with the line "count from the bottom". She did not mention the source by name, just Offer something that can be verified. Linh An realized that Yen was not looking for a single bad guy. She was trying to put the pieces in the right place, even though she knew each piece could cut her hand.

At that moment, the studio door was yanked open. A man in a gray coat walked in, without knocking. He introduced himself as Hung, the legal representative of the Cau Moc partnership, then placed a stack of papers on the table.

“The station broadcast unverified information,” Hung said. “We request to save the record, list of data providers and remove all related content within two hours.”

Yen pointed to the chair. “Do you have power of attorney?”

Hung put the paper down. “I brought enough.”

“Which record do you want?”

"All."

“Deleted interview transcripts no longer exist.”

Hung looked at Linh An, then looked at the tablet. “You are the data source?”

“I'm the one who made the scene report.”

“The minutes belong to the unit that hired you.”

“The measurement belongs to the truth at the scene before it belongs to anyone.”

Yen placed her hand on the stack of papers, neither pushing it back nor accepting it. "The station will respond in writing. We do not deliver the original data on site."

Hung said in a very light sentence: "An incomplete story often causes many people to lose their jobs."

“Then I'll send the missing part,” Yen replied. “The station will broadcast your opinion as well.”

Hung left, leaving the smell of perfume in the small room. Linh An looked at the stack of papers and saw that the first page was a photo of a map with the stamp "Internal documents". In the bottom corner, there is a dashed line leading through the market.

“They gave the wrong version,” she said.

Yen picked up the photo. "Why?"

"This map has a path. They are asking for it to be removed using the very thing that proves it exists."

“Have you taken a picture yet?”

"Not yet."

Yen put the photo down. "Don't take pictures without permission. But we can record it appearing in the legal requirements."

Linh An exhaled. She wanted to get the phone, but the phone was broken. She wants to keep a piece of evidence, but doesn't want to turn Yen into a file intruder. Every road has a price.

In the evening, when Linh An left the station, Yen gave her an old tape recorder.

“Mr. Bay Nhuan's,” she said. "A radio listener sent my contact number. He agreed to meet me, but he didn't want to meet with a crowd."

“Have you told me my name yet?”

“No. I just said there is someone counting with data.”

“Where is his appointment?”

“Under the Old Wharf Bridge, 6 a.m. He said he brought a pencil, not a camera.”

Linh An put her pencil in her pocket. On the way down to the bridge, she noticed a new piece of paper taped to the door of her mother's restaurant: notice of safety inspection and corridor clearance, with a deadline of three days.

Van stood in the kitchen looking out. She did not ask for the news. She just looked at the tape recorder in her daughter's hand.

“Mr. Bay called you?”

“You know he asked me out?”

“He didn't make an appointment with me.”

“So who's the date?”

Van returned to the rice cooker and closed the lid tightly. “You have started counting again.”

Linh An looked at the notice on the door. Below the red seal, a small line reads the estimated check-in time: 9 hours 17 minutes.

For the first time, the number is no longer a sign on a bridge. It entered her house.