I check five cameras before bed. I want to say it is a habit but habit is the wrong word, habit is chewing a pen. This is a record. Somebody has to keep a record of the roads that is not their record, and the cameras are right there, public, printing their little clocks onto every frame like a confession nobody reads. Two clocks, if you ever actually look. One burned into the header by the camera itself. One stamped on the bar at the bottom by whatever machine serves the feed out. Two clocks, one box on a pole. They are supposed to agree. That is the entire job of a clock, agreeing.

Last night four of the five agreed with themselves the way honest machines agree, five seconds apart, eight seconds, the small lag of the world catching up to itself. Then the camera on the Nuevo onramp. Header: 12:14:32 AM. Bar: 00:02:07. I did the arithmetic three times because I do not write anything down until I have done the arithmetic three times. Twelve minutes and twenty five seconds. On one frame. Printed by one machine that is supposed to be one place at one time.

I know the word you are reaching for. Caching. I considered caching before you did, and caching explains a stale frame, a frame from the past, it does not explain a header that runs AHEAD of the machine serving it. Ahead. The camera was finished with 12:14 while the rest of the county was still chewing on 12:02. I wrote every number down before they could change, all four honest cameras and the one that is not, and the full record is kept in the ledger. It lines up with what the nine second interval was already trying to tell me. Different road. Same arithmetic.

UPDATE 8/19:

Went back to 257 last night, because I go back to everything, thats the method, you dont get to write a number down one time and call it a record. Header 11:58:41 PM. Bar 23:58:36 PDT. Five seconds. Five. The Nuevo onramp camera is breathing like every other honest box on that road now and I want you to sit with what that actually means before you type the word firmware at me. Twelve minutes and twenty five seconds, thats what it printed on the thirty first. 745 seconds. I wrote that one out longhand in the ledger so nobody could file it as a typo, and now its five, and there was no notice, no correction posted anywhere, no advisory, nothing. The number just quietly stopped being wrong in the eighteen days between me writing it down and me looking again.

I put it on a page. Then it stopped.

Ethanac Road is still Temporarily Unavailable. Eighteen days of temporarily. I checked it four times this week, four, and I am counting because counting is the only thing that survives an argument, and a road cannot be temporarily anything for eighteen days, a road is the most permanently available object a county owns. So one camera between 168 and 257 gets rested and stays rested, and the camera past it corrects its books within three weeks of the arithmetic going public. If that reads as maintenance to you, fine, go be comfortable somewhere else, but do the reading first, the whole four camera record is still down in the ledger exactly as the frames printed it, five and five and eight and 745, I have not touched a word of it and I am not going to. I dont fix. I append. That is the second time now that a thing stopped doing the thing after I wrote the thing down, and the first one was the spacing, the sixty two inches, which I measured twice and then wrote down to the inch and which has been consistent since, so maybe thats not the same, maybe that ones the control group. Two, though. Two events. Nine days apart, or eighteen, depends which one you start the clock on and I dont know which one you start the clock on.

And there is a sign in the 257 frame.

It has been in every copy of that frame since July. Upper middle, spanning the northbound lanes, dark rectangle up on a gantry, unlit, sitting there in my own evidence the entire time I have been writing about a dark sign on a completely different freeway. Thats mine, thats my miss, I had the thing in the file already and I was too busy counting seconds to count structures. I zoomed it. The grain eats it, theres nothing on it to read because there is nothing lit on it to read, it is just off, the way the fourteen is off, on a night when the camera underneath it was running twelve minutes ahead of the county. My mother kept a clock in the hallway set four minutes fast on purpose so she would never be late and she was late for everything anyway for eleven years. Anyway. Sorry, thats not evidence, thats just what came up when I typed the word clock.

Pulling 257 again at midnight and the night after that and the night after that. If it goes back to running ahead I want the date it changed its mind, written down before it can change again. If it stays honest thats an answer to.