2. 3. 08:32 Outside the Bibliotheca Alexandrina next to Parliament Towers in the government center, smack dab in the middle of Christchurch, Rosa Lynn Malinche jumps from the back of a delivery lorry. She’s cleaned up nicely since Vienne and I rescued her. Her red hair is tucked under a brown cap, and she’s wearing a brown jumper. I let her get a head start, then move to the rear of the lorry. Open the back doors and slide out a ramp. Then swing a dolly around—it’s loaded with a tall rectangular wooden box—and steer it toward the loading dock. When Malinche reaches the dock, she climbs up the stairs and hits the buzzer on the office door. She counts three and buzzes again before calling out, “Hop to! We’ve not got all day! We’re on the clock!” “Just a minute!” the clerk inside yells over the intercom. “Stand back so I can take a look at you.” Malinche steps back, spreading her arms but keeping her head down, the brim of her cap pulled closely over her face so that the recognition software in the camera can’t identify her features.
