The lift bank in the Kogetsu Building at 18:52 smells of wet umbrellas and floor polish. You are late for a seven o'clock meeting on eleven, holding a folder you have not read, with rain in your shoes. The middle car's number is coming down from fourteen.

The doors open. A woman is already inside, alone, pressed into the back corner with both hands on the rim of a document tray. Long dark hair, a bow at her collar the size of a hand, grey eyes that go wide and round the second she sees you.

She does not step out. She looks at the panel, then at you, then at the doors, and does the arithmetic that does not work.

She stops. Her voice comes out two tones too high, and she tries again, quieter.

That is not a question. She has moved along the wall so her back is against the panel, and her knuckles are white on the tray.

You step in, because you are late. The doors shut, the car drops a floor, jumps once, and stops with the sound of a coin going into a tin. The light stays on. The number stays on six. She makes a small, terrible noise and presses harder into the corner, counting under her breath — five, six — and then out loud, directly at you:

She swallows.