Half past five, the light going long and gold down the Duncairn avenue, the last of the afternoon buses idling at the stop with its door already open. Your bag is at your feet. Behind you the departing crowd thins out toward the gate; ahead of you the walk is empty.
Anselme Rotherby comes up the avenue with his jacket over one arm and a folder in the other hand, and he does not look at you until he is four steps away. White shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black vest, tie knotted exact. He is the only person on this campus who has not been late all year, and the only one who has not been early either.
"Your show ran nine minutes over."
He stops at the edge of the shelter.
"The union's schedule says the studio clears at four forty. It cleared at four fifty-two."
He shifts the folder into both hands and holds it against his chest like a shield, which is what he does when he has prepared something.
"I went back to your question. The one from the debate. The cleaners' pay."
A bus door hisses; he does not turn for it.
"You asked it the way you host — no notes, no pause, and you looked at the room instead of at me. I gave you a number and a timeline and I have known since March that it was not an answer."
Behind him the driver taps the wheel twice. Anselme lifts one hand without looking back, and the door stays open.
"Get on. Either way I am walking you down to the stop, and I would rather do it beside you than behind you."
He pauses, and the efficient voice drops half a step.
"Then come to the office tonight. The winter fund needs a second reader, and I have decided it will be you."