Chapter 427: Chapter 198: The Disappeared Counters
Sarah Miller stood in front of the mirror, checking the manila folder for the third time.
The folder was thick and heavy, its corners already worn and frayed.
Inside were her lease agreement, bank statements, the shop’s floor plan, and three different versions of a health and safety pledge.
And a white envelope.
Inside the envelope was five hundred US dollars in cash.
This was per her aunt’s specific instructions.
Her aunt had run a restaurant in Pittsburgh for twenty years and knew City Hall’s rules like the back of her hand.
"Listen, kid." Her aunt’s expression at the time was like she was passing down some secret survival guide. "Go to the service hall, find the fat guy behind window number three, the one who always has droopy eyelids."
"If he nitpicks that your forms are filled out wrong, or says your handwriting isn’t neat, don’t argue with him. Just slip this envelope under the forms when you hand them in."
"Otherwise, you can forget about opening your bakery by this time next year."
Sarah touched the envelope.
She was a single mother and had been unemployed for four months.
Although Pittsburgh was hiring everywhere right now, they were all looking for burly men who could operate excavators, lay asphalt, and walk on scaffolding.
A woman like her, who knew nothing but how to bake bread and work a cash register, couldn’t find any decent work aside from washing dishes in a restaurant.
She had used all her savings to take over the closed-down convenience store on the corner, planning to turn it into a neighborhood bakery.
This was her final gamble.
If getting the license was delayed by a few months, the rent would crush her, and she and her daughter would have to go on welfare.
Sarah took a deep breath and pushed open the door to her home.
"For my daughter," she told herself.
She had long been prepared for a protracted battle.
The veterans had said that getting a business license in Pittsburgh was like navigating a maze with no walkthrough.
The Health Department, the Fire Department, the Tax Bureau, the Planning Department—every department was a level to clear, and every clerk a boss to defeat.
The normal process took three to six months.
Sarah hoped the five hundred US dollars could shorten that time to two months.
...
「Nine in the morning.」
Sarah stood at the entrance of the Municipal Service Center.
She froze.
The service hall from her memory—the one filled with the smell of sweat and the sound of arguments—was gone. The row of high counters was gone too.
Before her now was a spacious, bright, open-plan space with a modern feel.
A dozen white self-service kiosks were arranged in the hall, looking like something out of an Apple flagship store.
There were no long, snaking lines, no security guards with impatient faces, and no legendary fat guy with droopy eyelids.
There were only a few young people in blue vests printed with "Pittsburgh Services," weaving through the crowd with tablets in hand and enthusiastic smiles on their faces.
Sarah clutched her folder tightly, feeling a strange sense of panic.
She felt as if she had walked into the wrong place.
"Good morning, ma’am."
A young guide approached her.
He looked young, probably a college student volunteer.
"What can I help you with today?"
"I... I’d like to apply for a business license," Sarah stammered, instinctively hiding the envelope with the cash deeper in her coat. "For food service."
"Of course. Please follow me."
The guide led her to one of the kiosks.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No," Sarah said, growing more flustered. "Is an appointment required? I can wait. I brought my lunch."
The guide smiled.
"No, you don’t need to wait. This machine is free right now."
He pointed to the screen.
"Please place your driver’s license on the scanning area."
Sarah did as she was told.
BEEP.
The screen lit up, displaying Sarah’s basic information.
"Now, please select your business type on the screen."
Sarah reached out her finger, tapped the "Business Startup" category, and then selected "Food and Beverage Service."
The screen changed.
There was only a simple interface listing a few core questions:
1. Shop address?
2. Scope of business (Bakery/Hot Food/Cold Drinks/Alcohol)?
3. Projected opening date?
4. Will you be hiring employees?
Sarah turned to the guide. "My documents... the forms, the floor plan, the health pledge... don’t I need to submit them?"
"You can scan and upload them, or you can just check the commitment clauses directly in the system," the guide explained. "But if you’ve already submitted these documents for other municipal services, the system will automatically retrieve the archived files. You just need to confirm the information is correct."
Half-convinced, Sarah entered the shop address: 102 Fourth Avenue, Brooklyn District.
She hit Enter.
A progress bar appeared on the screen:
[Cross-referencing with multiple departments...]
[Accessing historical data from the Health Department...]
[Accessing building safety records from the Fire Department...]
[Syncing credit history from the Tax Bureau...]
Sarah’s heart was in her throat.
’This is the crucial moment.’
’According to my aunt, this is when the system should give an error, or a notification saying ’On-site inspection required.’ Then I’d have to run around to all the different department offices, begging those old geezers for their stamps.’
But the progress bar on the screen filled up rapidly.
Green checkmarks lit up one after another.
Behind the scenes, the instant Sarah entered the address, the system immediately retrieved the history for "102 Fourth Avenue, Brooklyn District."
The system discovered that the shop had undergone a full fire safety inspection just one month ago, and the result at the time was a pass.
Although the tenant had changed, the building’s structure and fire safety equipment had not.
The algorithm made an instant decision.
[Risk Level: Low. Waiving repeat on-site inspection. Citing valid, existing fire permit.]
Next, the system pulled Sarah’s personal tax records and credit score.
The records showed that Sarah Miller had paid her taxes on time for the past five years and had no negative business history.
The algorithm made another decision.
[Credit Rating: A. "Pledge and Permit" process applicable. Waiving preliminary health inspection, to be replaced by a compliance spot-check within two weeks of opening.]
Finally, the system connected to the Tax Bureau’s interface and automatically generated a tax ID for the newly registered business entity.
The entire process occurred without any human intervention.
DING!
A crisp chime brought Sarah back to her senses.
A large green smiley face popped up on the screen.
[Application Approved.]
[Generating electronic business license...]
[Generating health permit (provisional)...]
[Generating fire safety certificate...]
[Please select payment method: Pay $50 processing fee.]
Sarah was stunned.
She looked at the screen, then back at the guide.
"That’s... it?"
"Yes, that’s it," the guide said with a smile. "You can print your license now."
With a trembling hand, Sarah took her credit card out of her pocket and swiped it at the machine.
The indicator light on the machine’s dispenser slot lit up.
WHIRR—WHIRR—
A business license, printed with a gold-foil city seal, slowly emerged.
Sarah took the paper and glanced at the clock on the wall.
Nine forty-five.
From the moment she walked through the door to holding the license in her hand, a total of forty-five minutes had passed.
She had originally budgeted three months for this.
She had been prepared to endure condescending looks, prepared to beg, even prepared to offer a bribe.
She hadn’t even had a chance to open her thick folder.
The envelope with the five hundred US dollars was still lying quietly in her coat’s inner pocket.
"Is this real?" Sarah muttered to herself. "I’m legal now? I can open my shop?"
"Of course." The guide pointed to Sarah’s phone.
"You can take a look at your phone, if you’ve installed the Pittsburgh Heart app—that’s our credit and records wallet."
Sarah took out her phone.
A push notification had just popped up.
[Dear Lady Miller, congratulations on the successful registration of "Sarah’s Bakery." Your corporate tax account has been automatically activated.]
[As a newly registered small/micro-enterprise, you have been granted first-month tax exemption under the "Urban Renewal Initiative."]
[Furthermore, the system has detected that you are located in a priority support zone for the Renewal Initiative and has automatically applied for a 5,000 credit point (equivalent to 5,000 US Dollars) small business startup loan on your behalf. Flexible repayment, 0.01% daily interest rate.]
Sarah stared at her phone screen as tears streamed down her face without warning.
The people around her didn’t seem to notice; perhaps they were already used to this, or perhaps they were immersed in the same state of shock.
The guide, a bit flustered, handed her a tissue.
"Ma’am, are you alright?"
"I’m fine."
Sarah wiped away her tears and broke into a smile.
"It’s just... I’ve never seen a government like this."
Her whole life, she had been accustomed to buck-passing, delays, and indifference.
In her mind, the government was a phone number that never picked up, a perpetually stern face.
She was used to being given a hard time, used to being treated like a nuisance.
But today, this system had, for the first time, treated her like a person, a citizen worthy of respect.
It didn’t waste her time or demand her dignity.
It just paved the way for her and told her: Go on, go achieve your dream.
Sarah carefully placed the license in her bag.
She took out the envelope with the five hundred US dollars and squeezed it.
This money could now be used to buy her daughter those ballet shoes she had longed for.
Or, to buy a better mixer.
She turned and walked toward the main entrance.
As she pushed open the glass door and walked out of the Municipal Service Center, the noon sun broke through the clouds, shining on her face.
The sunlight was a bit dazzling, making her squint.
The streets were bustling with traffic, and in the distance, construction cranes dotted the skyline.
The city was humming, growing.
And now, she was a part of that hum.
She felt an unprecedented sense of ease and security.
She didn’t need to curry favor with anyone; she just needed to bake her bread.
...
On the top floor of City Hall, Leo stood before a console, looking at a yellow dot that had just lit up on the large screen.
That was Sarah’s Bakery.
A stream of data scrolled across the screen:
[New enterprise registration complete.]
[Location: Brooklyn District.]
[Type: Community Food Service.]
[Approval time: 43 minutes.]
Leo looked at the tiny point of light.
"Another one."
Leo said in a low voice.
"Yes, another one," Marcus said, sitting beside him. "This is the sixth new small business to register this morning. At this rate, the number of new enterprises this month will set a new record."
"This is efficiency,"
Ethan, standing to the side, remarked with emotion.
"We tore down the wall that stood between the citizens and the government."
"Before, that wall blocked thousands of aspiring entrepreneurs. They had ideas, they had skills, but they were scared off by the administrative costs."
"Now, that suppressed creativity is erupting."
"This is more effective than any investment promotion."
Leo nodded.
He looked at the yellow dot representing a small bakery.
On the grand map of the city, it was so small it was almost invisible.
But Leo knew that for the owner of this bakery, that dot was her entire world, the sum of all her hopes for the future.
"This is true freedom,"
Roosevelt’s voice rang out.
"Not the grand words written in the Constitution, but allowing an ordinary person, when they want to change their fate with their own two hands, to not be held down by an invisible one."
"You gave her freedom."
"And you gave this city freedom."
"Those vanished counters, those eliminated approval steps, those opened data-sharing channels."
"They are more precious than five hundred million US dollars."
"Because money runs out, but the rules remain."
"As long as this system is running, as long as this respect for the citizens’ time endures,"
"Pittsburgh will not die."
Leo watched the constantly blinking, ever-increasing points of light on the screen.
Every point of light was a family, a livelihood, a story of dignity.
He felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
"Ethan," Leo turned his head. "How are things in Bedford? Have the co-ops been set up?"
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