Two Blokes Living Off Her

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 2

Right, thats it! Make your choiceeither me, or your brother and his parade of women! Youve absolutely taken the mickey, havent you? First you dragged your entire family in, now its random girls as well? Quite the cushy arrangement youve landed yourself!

Charlotte stood in the middle of the bedroom, her hands shaking. She held the damning evidencesomeone elses nylon stockingbetween her fingers, her face contorted in a mixture of revulsion and rage. Minutes ago, shed fished it out from beneath the bed, instantly realising: this is definitely not mine.

Thomas, instead of showing even a flicker of remorse, screwed his face up as if *she* had brought some strange man home. He shifted from foot to foot, eyes darting towards the hallway with growing impatience.

Oh, Char, do stop making a fuss. You’re always blowing things out of proportion, Thomas huffed. Its just our guest. My brother. Your brother-in-law, by the way. So he brought a girl over, whats the big deal?

Charlotte wasnt worried about that. What she felt was cold and stickydisgust. As though shed stepped in something foul, spoiling her favourite pair of shoes.

She saw the way Thomas glanced at his brother, who had nearly made their flat his own for the past six months. Jamie didnt so much as lift a finger in support.

This is my flat, and I dont want strangers here, Charlotte spat through clenched teeth, barely suppressing her anger. That includes your brother as well. Buy your own place, and fill it with whoever you likebring in an elephant for all I care. Mine? I want it empty.

Now it was Thomass turn to look shocked, though Charlotte thought he had precious little reason to be. This was nothing but the inevitable.

Oh, come off it, Tom, lets just go, Jamie called lazily from the lounge. Well find another place, no one nagging our ears off. Less drama, innit? You knowgood riddance to bad rubbish.

On cue, Thomas swung open the wardrobe, yanked out his sports bag, and noisily stuffed in his clothest-shirts atop jeans, tangled chargers, even his underwear thrown haphazardly.

Youll regret this, Charlotte, he muttered, not meeting her eyes. No one else will want you…

The door banged so hard when they left, Charlotte was certain the glassware clinked in the sideboard.

She stood alone, the sudden silence almost ringing in her ears. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stared down at the hateful nylon stocking in her hand.
How had she let things get this far? When had her grandmothers cosy two-bed turned into a doss house?

***

Charlotte had met Thomas two years earlier. They were utterly different. She was quiet, a little shy, always struggling to connect. He was boisterous, talkative, always on the move. Despite both being students, Thomas had a part-time taxi job and wooed Charlotte with chocolates, poetry, even the occasional dinner out. For Charlotte, a bookish girl, it was the height of romance.

His suggestion that they move in together had come suspiciously fastbarely two months in.

I cant stand being apart from you, darling, hed whispered, holding her close. I just want to fall asleep beside you and wake up next to you every day.

Charlotte melted at his words. Only later, half a year down the line, she discovered the truth: Thomas had been kicked out of his lodgings for being too loud, and was desperate for a roof over his head. She rationalised itHard times happen to everyone. Just bad timing, thats all.

Still, their small world together was peaceful, if modest. Charlotte did her lectures by day, and gave lessons to kids in the evening, earning just enough to keep the fridge full. Thomas contributed to the bills whenever he could.

But then a third person invaded their little haven.

You said your brother was coming up for uni, right? Maybe we should have him round? Charlotte had asked one evening. He is family after all

Shed had no idea Jamie would grow so fond of their homefirst visiting every few days, soon every evening, before simply moving in. Charlotte, ever the polite host, started setting extra plates and cleaning up after two grown menwashing dishes, straightening the sofa bed, doing their laundry. All on her own.

She hadnt foreseen Jamies plans for university would completely evaporate.

So, Jamie, arent you a student now? Didnt they give you accommodation? Charlotte asked, three months into this new arrangement.

Nah, didnt get in. Missed the grades. Ill try again next year, he replied coolly.

Charlotte felt her stomach drop. She already suspected Jamie had no intention of moving out. And why would he? He was waited on hand and foot, got his meals cooked, spent half the day on his phone or out with his mates, and slept until noon.

Things got even worse when Thomas quit his job at the shop.

My boss is an idiot, he protested. The demands are endless, pays a joke. Its fine, Ill do a bit of cabbing while I look for something proper.

His job hunt dragged on. The reality was that now, Charlotte found herself supporting two fully-grown men. The groceries vanished overnight; what should last days disappeared in hours. Utility bills crept up every month. Jamie and Thomas couldnt care less.

Coming home from a days work, Charlotte would be greeted by piles of dirty dishes and socks festering in the bathroom. Dust gathered in every corner.

The first time she objected, Thomas looked genuinely perplexed.

Whats the matter with you, Char? Its just a bowl of soup! Jamies having a rough patch, needs time to adjust to London. Try to be a bit more sympathetic, youre the woman of the house, arent you?

Each time, she was made to feel stingy and mean, scolding others over food. Shed bite her tongue, wash up their filth again, desperate not to shatter the already fragile peace. She told herself this was just what supporting your loved ones looked like.

But the moment she found the half-drunk bottle of cheap wine and three glasses, she started to worry. And when she discovered that stockingthat was it, shed had enough.

That first night alone was restless. The silence was oddly oppressive; she missed Jamies snoring, the television burbling in the lounge, the squeak of Thomass slippers in the kitchen.

But in the morning, the fear of loneliness was replaced by relief. She opened the fridge: the cheese was still there. The juice untouched. No one had swigged milk straight from the bottle or left crumbs and a filthy knife on the table. She finally felt like the true mistress of her own home.

That evening, the isolation stung twice as much, so she went to see her friend, Emily. She needed to talk.

Oh, you silly thing, Charlie, Emily said kindly. Those two are probably already winding up the next poor girl. Whos to say it wasnt Thomas who brought that girl over? Either way, youre well out of it. If not for that clue, youd still be feeding both of them.

When Charlotte got home, she wasnt just tidyingshe was purging her old life. Forgotten socks, empty crisp packets, cigarette buttsanything that reminded her of the circuswent in the bin. Even old presents. She changed her sheets, scrubbed the floors with bleach, and at last, felt at peace.

At the end of the month, doing her accounts, Charlotte was amazed to discover she could actually save a littleput something by for a rainy day.

A year and a half went by.

Charlotte transformed. She got a teaching job at a private school, learned how to say no, and stopped trying to make life easy for everyone else. She even met someoneAlex, an engineer, five years older, with his own (mortgaged) flat.

This time, Charlotte didnt rush into anything. She watched Alex for six months before agreeing to move in together. In the end, they lived at her placeit was closer to the centre of town. Alex let his out, using the rent to speed up paying off his mortgage.

Life found a comfortable rhythm until one evening, Alex put down his phone and said:

Listen, Char, just had my mum on the phoneneeds to come to London for some medical checks. Obviously cant get that in the village. Shell need to stay for a week, maybe two. How do you feel about that?

Charlottes insides turned to ice. Images flashed before her eyesJamie sprawling on the sofa, loud snoring through the wall, feeling like a visitor in her own home. Her heart raced.

She looked at Alex. He waited for her answer, as if their whole future rested on these next words. Should she keep quiet? Be accommodating, for the sake of love? Sacrifice herself, all over again?

Charlotte took a deep breath, steadying her nerves.

Alex, she said as calmly as she could manage, I have a rule. No overnight guests in my home. Not from your side, not from mine. Our home is our castle, just ours. Please dont take it the wrong way, but thats how I am.

The silence was heavy. Charlotte braced herself, expecting accusations, slammed doors, a storm.

But Alex just raised his eyebrows in surprise, then smiled and nodded.

Honestly, no worries, he said, turning back to his phone. Theres no point everyone being squeezed in, when weve got the other place. Ill sort her out a flat near the clinic; that way, shes comfortable and we dont get under each others feet.

Charlotte blinked, hardly able to believe it.

Youre not upset? she asked quietly.

Alex set his phone down, crossed the room and hugged her.

Why would I be? Everyones got their needs. Theres always another way, or a compromise.

Charlotte smiled into his shoulder. Shed found someone who didnt treat her no as a challenge to be won, but as a partner to be respected. From now on, her homeand her heartwould only be open to those who wiped their feet at the door.

Everything Happens for the Best Margaret Bennett was a strong-willed, successful mother determined to mould her daughter, Emily, in her own image. Margaret believed unwaveringly in her own path, insisting Emily follow her advice in all things, no exceptions. “Emily,” Margaret would declare sternly, “if you want to achieve as much as I have, you must stick to the path I set for you. Not a single step off it—is that clear?” “Yes, Mum,” Emily always replied. Emily loved her mother and wanted to please her, so she obeyed. Margaret, meanwhile, dreamed of her daughter becoming a picture of perfection. But the older Emily grew, the harder that became. Children will be children—Emily spilled things, tore things, fell, and broke things. But she was always top of the class, knowing a single ‘C’ would be a disaster at home. “Emily, that’s disgraceful—a ‘C’! Don’t you respect your father and me? Fix it, and don’t bring shame to the family,” Margaret would admonish. “Okay, Mum… it was just one ‘C’…” “It doesn’t matter. You must always be the best.” Worried but dutiful, Emily always made up for mistakes, and finished school with straight A’s—there was simply no other option. Margaret beamed when her daughter easily got into university. “Well done, darling—I’m proud of you. Keep it up.” Margaret ran her own construction business—tough in a man’s world, but she was sharper than many businessmen. No doubt her daughter would join the family business after university. Emily longed to be free of her mother’s control, maybe even attend university in another city—but that wasn’t going to happen. “You’ll study here where I can keep an eye on you,” Margaret insisted. “There’s a perfectly good university in Brighton.” Of course, Emily didn’t argue. But on her third year at university, she met Tom—a charming, blue-eyed classmate in a different group. He wasn’t as academic, and loathed coursework, so one day he asked her for help. “Emily, could you help me with my coursework? I’m swamped…” “Of course,” she agreed eagerly. She ended up writing Tom’s coursework, and he repaid her in affection, letting her love him. Their romance blossomed: dates, cinema, cafes. Margaret soon sensed something was up. “Are you in love, Emily?” “How did you know?” “It’s written all over your face. Bring him round—I want to know what kind of boy he is.” Emily brought Tom home; her parents welcomed him, and Margaret held back her criticism. But after he left, Margaret couldn’t help herself. “That boy is using you. He’s not very bright—what do you see in him?” “That’s not true, Mum,” Emily protested for the first time. “Tom is ambitious and well-read—just because he’s not like you doesn’t mean he’s not special.” “He’s not right for you,” Margaret insisted. “Sorry, Mum, but no matter what you say, I’m going to keep seeing him. I love him.” Margaret looked at her daughter, disgruntled. “You’ll see—one day you’ll realise he’s nothing special.” Emily stood her ground, and after graduation, married Tom. She was glad her mother was wrong about him. Life, as it happens, showed that even “average” students can excel. Tom quickly found a great job, while Emily remained working under her mother’s wing. Tom had his own flat—his parents’ gift—so Emily was delighted to have her own space. But Margaret made sure Emily continued working for her. One day Tom came home and shared, “Emily, I’ve been promoted to department head! Probationary for now, but I’ll prove myself.” He soon got the job permanently. Tom hated, though, that Emily with her shiny degree still worked for her mum. “You’ll never get anywhere working for your mother, Emily. It’s time to break free. Otherwise, you’ll always be under her thumb. She’s a tyrant, and you’re just letting it happen.” It hurt to hear, but Emily knew he was right. Eventually, Tom stopped reprimanding her, but became withdrawn. Emily didn’t mind—he was still there. Another year passed, then one day Tom quietly said, “I’ve met someone else. I love her. I’m leaving you. She’s everything you’re not…” For the first time, Emily snapped. She shouted, sobbed, smashed a plate, and even hurled Tom’s phone at the wall. Then she calmed down. Tom, watching silently, muttered, “So you do have a backbone—I wish I’d seen it sooner.” Then he left. “I hate you,” she whispered, gathered her things, rented a flat, and left. She told Margaret nothing, dreading her mother’s response. For over a month, she kept up the charade, but Margaret soon noticed something was wrong. “What’s the matter? You look lost. Is it Tom?” “No more Tom, Mum.” “I knew it—he’s left you. When did it happen?” “April.” “And you never said a word?” Emily sighed and endured her mother’s tirade about Tom and her own shortcomings. “At least you’re not his servant anymore. Lucky you don’t have a child. Next time, listen to my advice, alright?” “Mum, everything happens for the best,” Emily replied, and added, “And I’m done working for you. I’ve had enough,” before walking out, leaving Margaret stunned. Emily decided to put serious distance between herself and her mother, knowing she’d never escape Margaret’s “mentoring” otherwise. Walking aimlessly, she caught a tram, and on alighting, tripped into a pothole. “Just what I need,” she thought wryly as she sat down in pain. A passing young man hurried over, “Are you alright?” He helped her up; her ankle hurt. “Need a lift to the hospital?” he offered. “I’m Jack, by the way. And you?” “Emily.” At the hospital, they learned it was only a sprain—no fracture. Jack stayed the whole time, drove her home, and asked for her number, “In case you need anything.” She gave it. The next day, Jack called. “Need anything from the shops? How’s the ankle?” “Juice, some fruit… oh, and some bread, please.” Soon, the doorbell rang—Jack arrived with two big bags. “Why so much?” “Well, we’ve got to celebrate our meeting! If you don’t mind, I’ll sort the food, and shall we ditch the formalities…?” Emily burst out laughing, completely at ease. Jack prepared a nice meal, heated up some food, poured the juice (he didn’t drink alcohol), and they had a wonderful evening. Four months later, Emily married Jack. A year after that, baby Chloe was born. When people asked Emily where she found such a great husband, she laughed and said, “He picked me up off the street! Don’t believe me? Ask him!” Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you the very best in life.

Countdown to Launch Day On the third-floor office, she closed the folder of incoming documents and stamped the last application, careful not to smudge the ink. Neat piles lined her desk: “benefits,” “recalculations,” “complaints.” In the hallway, the queue was already forming, and by their voices she recognised the regulars she saw week after week. She liked this job for the simple results: paper turned into payments, certificates into free bus rides, signatures into the reassurance that no one had to choose between medicine and heating. She glanced at the clock. Forty minutes till lunch, but she still had to check last week’s register and reply to two county emails. Inside, there was a constant weariness—like a tightly knotted tension in her shoulders. She’d gotten used to it as background noise, keeping herself anchored in order. Order was her protection against falling apart. Stability in life came down to numbers. The mortgage on the small flat on the edge of town where she lived with her son after the divorce, monthly fees for his college, plus her mum’s medicines and part-time carer after her stroke. She never complained, just counted. Each month was a report: income, expenses, what could be set aside, what couldn’t. When the secretary called to a meeting, she grabbed her notepad and pen, switched off the monitor, and locked her office. The conference room was already occupied by her department head, two deputies, and the company solicitor. On the table: a jug of water, plastic cups. The boss spoke in a flat, emotionless tone, as if reading the news. “Colleagues, the quarterly review brought new directives for efficiency—starting the first of next month, we launch a new service model. Some roles will transfer to a central hub. Our branch on Alexandra Road is closing; benefits will now go through the Citizens’ Advice Centre and the council portal. Payment procedures are changing, and some categories will be reassessed.” She scribbled notes, but the words started to stick. “Branch on Alexandra Road closing”—that wasn’t just an address. It served those from the council estates and the nearby villages, the elderly for whom the town centre was two buses away. “Reassessment” always meant someone would lose out. The solicitor added, “This is confidential until the official announcement. No communication or leaks. Any breach will be considered a violation. You’ve signed the NDAs.” The boss paused on her, a moment longer than the rest. “There’ll be staff changes. Those who manage the pressure and show discipline will be considered for promotion. We look after our own.” The words landed on the table, heavy. Her throat felt dry. Promotion meant a pay rise—less fear about the bank and the pharmacy. But “closing” and “reassessment” echoed louder. After, she returned to her office and opened her internal emails. There it was: “Draft Order—Not for Circulation.” Attached: a table with dates, addresses, and descriptions. Scrolling down, she saw: “From the 1st, service ceases at…” and below, a list of vulnerable groups whose benefit terms were changing. One section read, “Without an online form, payments are suspended until documents are provided.” She knew “suspended” meant for many the money would vanish for a month, two—some people wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t manage to apply in time, wouldn’t even know what was required. She printed just one page—the launch date and general order—then filed it in “confidential.” The printer’s warm page left a ghost on the tray as she closed the lid, as if that could hide the implications. By lunch, the corridor’s queue grew thicker. She worked quickly but attentively, catching herself looking at each person as a potential future casualty. The pensioner whose hands shook as she handed over her son’s income certificate. The man in a hi-vis jacket requesting reimbursement for medical travel. The single mum, needing another recalculation after her ex stopped paying maintenance. She knew their faces and stories. In local government, people never disappear—they always come back with new paperwork or the same old worries. Now she was expected to keep silent as the system quietly changed the names on the doors. She stayed late that evening. The office was still, just the distant slam of security’s door below. She opened the table and pored over the details—not out of curiosity, but to see if there was any soft landing at all. Any chance for home visits, a transition period, some leaflets to prepare? She found only, “Public information: via website or posters at the advice centre.” That was it. No phone calls, no letters, no meetings with community reps. She shivered at the simplicity. Next day, she went to the boss. Not with complaints, just questions, as usual. “Can I clarify—at Alexandra Road, half our visitors don’t have smartphones or internet. Without electronic forms, they’ll miss out. Can we run face-to-face services in both places for a month, at least? Or do a drop-in at the village?” The boss rubbed his brow. “It’s not our choice. We’ve got targets to cut costs, raise digital rates. We can’t run two sites, and outreach means transport, travel costs, paperwork. There’s no budget.” “Then can we at least warn them in good time? We see them every day.” “We’ll do official comms when the order comes in, no sooner. You know what happens otherwise—panic, complaints, people phoning county hall. We still have to close the quarter.” She felt anger rising, but it wasn’t all at him. He was stuck in the same spreadsheets, just at a higher level. “If they lose their benefits, they’ll come back to us. Here.” “They will,” he replied placidly. “We’ll explain. We’ll have new instructions. You’re strong, you’ll cope.” She left his office feeling firmly put in her place. Colleagues were chatting about holidays and “more changes again.” She said nothing. Not because she agreed; she didn’t know how to say it without becoming the problem herself. At home, she reheated yesterday’s soup and set two bowls. Her son came in late, weary, headphones around his neck. “Practicals might be moved,” he said. “They might send us to a different site. If not, I’ll have to sort something myself.” She nodded, hiding how hard it hit her. He had it tough enough, studying and working, and sometimes he still looked at her as if she was meant to be the rock. After he went to his room, she rang her mum’s carer to confirm their schedule, then called her mum, who spoke slowly but tried to sound upbeat. “Don’t forget yourself,” her mum said. “You take it all on.” She started to say her usual “I’m fine,” but instead blurted out, “Mum, if your local chemist was shutting and you had to get prescriptions in town now, would you want to know in advance?” “Of course,” her mum replied. “I’d ask you to stock up, or I’d get the neighbour to help. Why?” She said nothing. It wasn’t about the chemist. That night, she couldn’t sleep. “Confidentiality” in their world, she realised, wasn’t about safety, but about keeping a lid on things—so people couldn’t organise, ask questions, or even staff wouldn’t doubt the numbers. On the third day, a village woman came in for disability care benefits. She held her folder as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. “They said I have to prove it again,” she whispered. “I brought everything. Please make sure it’s right. If it’s delayed…I don’t know how I’ll manage. My husband’s disabled, I don’t work.” She checked the paperwork, the launch date pounding in her mind. The woman would never use the online system—not from refusal, but from exhaustion and lack of skills. “Do you have a phone? Internet?” “Just a basic phone. The neighbours have internet, but I rarely have time.” She nodded, replying within the day’s rules. “Let me sort it all now, by the current process. And here—” she handed over a leaflet with the Citizens’ Advice address and schedule—“Come in straight away if you hear any changes, don’t wait.” The woman thanked her as you thank someone not just for help, but for recognising your humanity. As she left, the “come straight away” felt almost cruel. “Straight away” would be too late. The department group chat later pinged with a reminder from the solicitor: “Reminder: sharing draft orders is grounds for dismissal.” She saw the reactions added; someone typed “understood.” She stared at the screen as fear turned into a kind of resolve. By that evening, a list of addresses due for transfer and benefit categories with new rules lay in front of her. She knew she shouldn’t print it, but she printed one copy just to check the cases. It sat on her desk—too white, too obvious. She locked the door, sat with her hands on the edge of the desk. The 24–48 hour window was real. Two days left until the formal order, but the launch date wasn’t a secret any longer. If people found out now, they could still submit their forms, rally family to help with the portal, sort out paperwork. If not, they’d get to Alexandra Road to find the doors locked and a security guard telling them off. She weighed her options: warn her colleagues? It would spread fast and she’d take the blame. Tip off the neighbourhood chat? They’d trace the source. Phone vulnerable people? She didn’t have everyone’s number; that would be blatant. One path remained: anonymously send the information to someone discreet who could share it quietly. There was a veterans’ group in the area, some active neighbourhood chat admins, and a local paper reporter—she’d worked with her before. She photographed just the section with the date and address—no names or internal codes. Then, after finding the journalist’s contact, she typed and retyped the message, hands shaking not from drama but from knowing there was no going back: “Please check: from 1st, Alexandra Road closes, some benefits move to Council Advice Centre or online. People should file early. OK to publish anonymously. Document is a draft, but the date is set.” She cropped the photo to hide internal markings. Muted her phone, as if that could render her invisible. Sent, deleted the chat, deleted the photo from the gallery and trash. Each action mechanical—habitual, but this time serving not order, but self-preservation. She ripped up the paper into scraps, bagged it, and took it straight to the communal bins. Washed her hands, though there was no dirt. Next day, the news was already circulating in community chats: “They’re closing the branch,” with a photo of an announcement that didn’t exist yet. Tension rose in her office. Colleagues whispered; the boss stalked the halls; the solicitor demanded affidavits of “non-involvement.” She continued taking her appointments, all the while expecting to be called in. People did come—more crowded, more urgent, but determined. The man from down the street brought his mum, helped her register online, but insisted on filing a paper form, just in case. The single mum wanted a printed checklist “because the chat said they’ll stop accepting them soon.” A village woman phoned to ask if she could lodge her application early. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering with relief. That evening, her boss summoned her. On the desk, a printed screenshot from the chat—the same phrases from the draft. “You know what this is?” he asked. She looked at the sheet, answered evenly, “I do.” “This was a leak. County Hall is asking questions. The solicitor wants an inquiry. You were at the meeting—you had access to the email. You’ve worked here the longest. I’m not looking to make an example of you,” he said, weariness not menace in his voice, “but I need to know if I can rely on you.” She felt herself clench inside. His “rely” meant “keep quiet.” She could blag ignorance, maybe get away with it, stay in a system built on little silences. “I didn’t share documents,” she said carefully. “But I do think people deserved fair warning. If they found out, maybe it was the right thing.” He was silent for a long time. “Fine. In that case—I won’t make a scene of this. But the promotion’s off. I’ll move you to the records section—no public work, no payments. Officially, it’s workload adjustment. Really, it’s so you’re not tempted. Agreed?” She heard neither kindness nor punishment—just the urge to save face for all. Records meant less contact, less meaning, but less risk. Lower pay, not much bonus. The mortgage wouldn’t disappear. “And if I refuse?” she asked. “Then a hearing, warnings, possible dismissal. You know how this works. I’d have to sign off on it.” She left with her transfer note, to be signed by end of day. Colleagues looked busy, but she felt their eyes. No one came near. In such places, people fear not management, but the risk of standing next to someone “dangerous.” That night, she sat at the kitchen table in silence. Her son came out, saw her face, and asked, “What’s happened?” She told him—briefly, just facts. He listened, then said, “You’ve always said the most important thing is not to be ashamed.” She smiled—too perfect for their kitchen, but still true. “As long as we can eat—and I can look people in the eye.” Next day she signed her transfer, hand trembling over the signature—but the line stayed straight. Records work smelled of paper and dust: shelves, boxes, files. She got her keys and a list of quiet, ghostly tasks. A week later, the official poster went up on Alexandra Road. People complained; that’s how it goes—but some had applied early. A former colleague, eyes averted, whispered, “Some made it. Those who got word early, or had grandkids help. Maybe it wasn’t for nothing.” She nodded, carrying her files. She wasn’t a hero, hadn’t saved everyone or overturned the system. Just took one small action, and paid for it. That evening, she visited her mum, delivered shopping and medicine. Her mum eyed her closely. “You look more worn out.” “Yes,” she replied. “But I know why.” She unpacked the bags, took off her coat, and washed her hands in warm water—the only thing right now fully under her control. Outside, the city rolled on—and the countdown to someone else’s launch date had already begun.