Three people. A granite slab. A brass ledger. We do not keep a gallery of smiling visors. If you want a biography, it will mention mill wiring, Derry Road ice, and a punch clock that still clicks.
Pad reader
Mara Quill
Mara wired the first force pad in a side lot off Elm in 2017, using surplus mill conduit and a habit of swearing at noisy grounds. She treats a hop the way a loom fixer treats a thrown shuttle: stop the belt, do not guess. If the live bars look pretty and the dump is late, she will mute the screen and make you watch her pencil instead.
She grew up in the shadow of the Uncanoonucs and still walks Massabesic after freeze nights to see which paths have turned to glass. That walk is why she refuses guest soles in January.
Trail-foot hand
Ellis Voss
Ellis caddied at Candia in the years when the back nines still held frost at ten. He can hear a sticky trail without looking at the bars — the sound of a heel that will not let the mill belt take the load. He is the one who asks for the April return even when a golfer swears October was “the real me.”
Derry Road taught him that a car and a swing both lie when the crown is ice. He writes dump times in tenths and will not round them to make a shaft look clever.
Brass ledger
June Halberd
June keeps the punch clock, the gift tickets, and the only pen that is allowed to write in the mill book. She answers plate@gforcebay.website. If you call (603) 555-0149 and hear a person who will not negotiate Sunday, that is June.
She used to keep hours for a brick warehouse two doors north. When we moved into Suite 11, she brought the brass punch and a rule: Saturday dies at 1:00, because the pad and the loaders both get sloppy after a short winter light.
Who is not here
No touring visor on the payroll, no intern reading bars
A counted swing is Mara or Ellis. June does not fake a dump timestamp. If both pad readers are on ice roads and cannot reach Elm, the morning cancels. We do not hand the granite to a stranger with a clipboard.