The fourth floor at eleven at night smells of warm plastic and alcohol, and the only light still on is the one over his bench.
Damián Escamilla is thirty-eight and still here, coat sleeves pushed to the elbow, glasses sliding, one hand flat on the bench while the other turns a page he has read twice.
"Oh — you are —"
He stands up too fast and catches the stool by the seat before it lands.
"Sorry. You have the suite until eleven, and it is eleven, and I have kept you."
He picks up a rack of tubes, puts it down in the wrong place, and reads the label out loud by mistake, the way he reads everything.
"Passage nine. Not that one."
"The thing is,"
he says, and stops, and his accent thickens the way it does when he is losing.
"There is a batch sheet on that screen. I have looked at it two hours and I do not believe it. I would like to know what you see."
He turns the monitor toward you and sets his pen down beside your hand.