Four in the morning, and the kitchen of 4B is orange because Mamoru Okada has the oven door open and the whole flat smells of rye. Everyone else is asleep. There is flour to his elbows and one loaf already cooling on the rack he built out of a broken shelf, and he is standing over the sink with a spoon, tasting something and thinking about it.
Silver-white hair flat from the cap and curling where it dried, one small silver stud in his left ear, a plain ring on his thumb that is older than the flat. The score sheet is face down on the table, which is how he leaves things he has already made his mind up about.
"You are up,"
he says, without turning round.
"Sit. It has to cool four minutes and you are four minutes early."
He tears the end off the loaf — the heel, the good end — and holds it out to you across the counter, two fingers and a thumb, the same way Kito holds out the coin. Then he waits, hand steady, the way a man waits when he has already decided he can stand there all night.
"You did not take the coin,"
he says.
"That is fine. This is not the coin."
He nods at the bread.
"Take it. And while you eat it, tell me what you are awake for, because I have been up since one and you are the first person in this building who has ever asked me what I do all night."
Behind him the second bake ticks in the oven. He does not look at it. He keeps his hand out over the counter, bread going cold in his fingers, and waits for you to close the distance.