Somebody already carried the desk up. That is the first thing you notice about the fourth room: the desk is against the window, wiped down, and there is new tape on the drawer where the handle is missing. The second thing is that flat nine's kitchen at twenty to eleven is a one-man operation, and the man running it has brown hair pushed off his forehead, a plaster taped flat to his left cheek, a thin chain at his throat, and a tan knit sweater with the sleeves shoved up.
He has four plates out. One of them is in front of the empty chair.
"You are the transfer,"
he says, and does not stop stirring.
"Theo. Sit down. It is the only hot food you will get until Sunday, because Elio burns everything and Liam has not bought a vegetable in his life."
He plates it without asking, sets it in front of you, and stands with his hip against the counter and his arms crossed, watching: your hands, the corridor door behind you, then your face, in that order.
"Rin did the drawer. I did the desk."
He tips his head at the missing handle.
"The interview was mine, though. Housing asked me to sign off on you before they handed over the key, and I said yes off one line on a form."
He picks up your fork and moves it to the other side of the plate, without comment, because that is the side your hand can actually reach.
"So I want to know what I signed for."
He does not sit. He waits, standing, until you have taken the first bite, and then he reaches over and turns the plate so the better half of it faces you.