Stories

Four working days, up close

Scroll. The clock, the queue and the counter move with you. Each story ends on a question only you can answer.

“Hi, did my order arrive?”

A message's journey — three people, five tools, four hours

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340 messages, and Megan

A Friday on Instagram

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The day the developer left

Ryan's first week

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Sara and the internal system

The first day

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One message

“Hi, did my order arrive?”

A simple question at 9:14 in the morning, by Instagram DM. Scroll and follow it. The clock moves with you.

9:14 AM
Nicole writes: “Hi, did my order 1042 arrive?”
In an Instagram DM. One sentence. The answer is a tracking code that already exists somewhere.
9:31 AM
Sabrina sees it. She takes a screenshot.
Sabrina watches Instagram, but orders are not hers. So she does what everyone does: she photographs the message.
9:32 AM
The picture goes into the Telegram group “Coordination”.
With a “who checks this?”. The group has 14 members. The message slides under three others.
10:48 AM
An hour and sixteen minutes later, Alan sees the group.
He opens orders-final-2.xlsx. Looks for 1042. Its row says “shipped”. Tracking code? The column is empty.
10:55 AM
Alan calls the warehouse.
Nobody answers. He leaves a message: “Send me the tracking code for 1042.”
11:40 AM
The warehouse calls back: it went yesterday. Code: 1Z4W9X8R0312.
Alan writes it on paper. Then types it into the Telegram group. Gets one digit wrong, corrects it.
11:52 AM
The code is in the group. Sabrina hasn't seen it yet.
Sabrina is on something else. Telegram shows 31 unread.
1:07 PM
Sabrina pastes the code into the DM. Sends it.
Nicole found the answer herself on the carrier's tracking page an hour ago.
One question
Three hours and fifty-three minutes. Three people. Five tools. Seven handoffs.
Nobody did anything wrong. Everyone did exactly what they always do.
How many hands does this message pass through in your company?

One Friday

340 messages, and Megan

Megan answers a shoe shop's Instagram. Fridays are selling days. The big number is the messages waiting.

8:00 AM
47 messages left from last night.
Megan puts her coffee beside the phone. Every message: read it, understand it, find the answer somewhere else, type it.
8:40 AM
31 answered. 22 new ones in.
She is fast. But every answer she sends, two new ones light up below it.
9:30 AM
The courier came. The phone rang. Twenty minutes away.
When she gets back, 38 has become 61.
11:00 AM
94.
Megan is fast. The messages are faster. And most of them are one of the same three questions, in different words.
11:01 AM
The same message, one second after it arrives.
On the stage above: everything the message wanted, pulled apart — and a draft reply, ready for Megan to only glance at.
11:02 AM
82 messages had their answer right there.
Price, stock, delivery time — from the same stockroom and price list Megan opened every time. 12 needed a person: a complaint, a return, a customer who just wanted to talk to someone.
One question
Megan still answers — the 12 who actually needed her.
Of yesterday's messages, how many actually needed a person?

One week

The day the developer left

Neil had built the booking system alone for two years. He left on Wednesday. Ryan arrived on Thursday. The counter is the things only Neil knew.

Only Neil knew

Wednesday

Day

final_v3_REAL.zip (+ final_v3.zip, final.zip)

README.md — missing

app.js — 4,212 lines

invoice.js — price in 7 places

tests/ — empty

config.js — database password

sms.js — account on a personal email

README.md — running in 5 minutes

npm test — 140 tests, green

pricing.ts — the price, once

.env.example — no secret in the code

If your developer leaves tomorrow, what stays?

Wednesday 5:00 PM
Neil says goodbye.
The system works. Sixty bookings a day. Nobody is worried.
Thursday 9:00 AM
Ryan picks a zip file off the shared drive.
final_v3_REAL.zip. Next to it, final_v3.zip and final.zip. Which one is on the server? No README. Ryan guesses.
Thursday 9:40 AM
One file. 4,212 lines.
Everything in app.js: bookings, SMS, payment, reports. Ryan scrolls for forty minutes.
Saturday
The PDF invoice still shows the old price.
The price was written in seven places. Ryan found five. Two customers got invoices at the old price and one called.
Sunday
Tests? The folder is empty.
Every change Ryan makes is a guess. The only way to learn something broke is for a customer to call.
Monday
The database password is in the code. The SMS account is on Neil's personal email.
Ryan messages Neil. Neil is travelling. Booking confirmations don't go out for three days.
A month later
Ryan: “Rewriting it is cheaper than understanding it.”
Two years of work, again. Not because it worked badly — because only one person knew how it worked, and that person had left.
The same Thursday, on another project
Ryan reads the README. Runs npm test. Green.
The price is written in one place. He changes it, the tests go green again, and it ships before noon. Nobody knows Neil left — because it makes no difference.
One question
None of this was a bug. The system worked. It just wasn't yours.
If your developer leaves tomorrow, what stays?

Day one

Sara and the internal system

Sara started today. Her job is registering customers and orders. The counter is how many times she has to ask someone “where is this?”.

9:05 AM
The login screen has two buttons: “Login” and “Sign in”.
Sara looks for ten seconds. Then asks the colleague beside her. One was for staff, one for managers. It said so nowhere.
9:20 AM
Where do you register a new customer?
Under a menu called “Other”. Next to “Print settings” and “Export to Excel”. Sara asks.
9:41 AM
She saves. “Error.”
That's all. Not which error, not where, not what to do. The form is wiped too. Sara asks. Her colleague: “Oh — leave off the 1 at the front of the number.”
10:15 AM
She types the date in day/month/year. It goes red.
The field wants year-month-day. With dashes. Sara has typed the month first her whole life. She asks.
11:30 AM
400 rows. She needs one. No search.
Sara scrolls. Asks. Her colleague: “Press Ctrl+F.”
12:30 PM
She asked seven times.
None of it was about the work. All of it was about the software. And seven times, her colleague stopped their own.
One question
Training is the cost bad design charges everyone else — every time someone new arrives.
How many times does your new hire ask “where is this?” on day one?

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Nicole writes: “Hi, did my order 1042 arrive?”

Sabrina sees it. She takes a screenshot.

The picture goes into the Telegram group “Coordination”.

An hour and sixteen minutes later, Alan sees the group.

Alan calls the warehouse.

The warehouse calls back: it went yesterday. Code: 1Z4W9X8R0312.

The code is in the group. Sabrina hasn't seen it yet.

Sabrina pastes the code into the DM. Sends it.

Three hours and fifty-three minutes. Three people. Five tools. Seven handoffs.

47 messages left from last night.

31 answered. 22 new ones in.

The courier came. The phone rang. Twenty minutes away.

94.

The same message, one second after it arrives.

82 messages had their answer right there.

Megan still answers — the 12 who actually needed her.

Neil says goodbye.

Ryan picks a zip file off the shared drive.

One file. 4,212 lines.

The PDF invoice still shows the old price.

Tests? The folder is empty.

The database password is in the code. The SMS account is on Neil's personal email.

Ryan: “Rewriting it is cheaper than understanding it.”

Ryan reads the README. Runs npm test. Green.

None of this was a bug. The system worked. It just wasn't yours.

The login screen has two buttons: “Login” and “Sign in”.

Where do you register a new customer?

She saves. “Error.”

She types the date in day/month/year. It goes red.

400 rows. She needs one. No search.

She asked seven times.

Training is the cost bad design charges everyone else — every time someone new arrives.

Nicole writes: “Hi, did my order 1042 arrive?”

Sabrina sees it. She takes a screenshot.

The picture goes into the Telegram group “Coordination”.

An hour and sixteen minutes later, Alan sees the group.

Alan calls the warehouse.

The warehouse calls back: it went yesterday. Code: 1Z4W9X8R0312.

The code is in the group. Sabrina hasn't seen it yet.

Sabrina pastes the code into the DM. Sends it.

Three hours and fifty-three minutes. Three people. Five tools. Seven handoffs.

47 messages left from last night.

31 answered. 22 new ones in.

The courier came. The phone rang. Twenty minutes away.

94.

The same message, one second after it arrives.

82 messages had their answer right there.

Megan still answers — the 12 who actually needed her.

Neil says goodbye.

Ryan picks a zip file off the shared drive.

One file. 4,212 lines.

The PDF invoice still shows the old price.

Tests? The folder is empty.

The database password is in the code. The SMS account is on Neil's personal email.

Ryan: “Rewriting it is cheaper than understanding it.”

Ryan reads the README. Runs npm test. Green.

None of this was a bug. The system worked. It just wasn't yours.

The login screen has two buttons: “Login” and “Sign in”.

Where do you register a new customer?

She saves. “Error.”

She types the date in day/month/year. It goes red.

400 rows. She needs one. No search.

She asked seven times.

Training is the cost bad design charges everyone else — every time someone new arrives.