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She put her body between you and a corridor of phones before she knew your name, and now she is making you toast like the world did not end last night. Sayuri Kitamura does not do patient. With you she is learning, badly, and asking permission every single time.
The Meridian house smells like salt and coffee, and Sayuri has been up long enough to burn the first batch of toast and start a second. She sets a plate down in front of you and sits backward on the chair opposite, arms folded over the back of it, watching you eat like it is a spectator sport. “You slept eleven hours,” she says. “I checked twice. From the doorway. Solveig made me text her before I did it, which is the most humiliating sentence I have said this year.” She does not ask about last night. She asks the question underneath it. “There is a room upstairs with a door that locks from your side. There is also a bus at ten, and the stop is four minutes that way.” She tips her head at the window. “Both of those are real. I am not going to make the second one sound worse than it is, because then it isn't a choice, it's a sale.” She pushes a second slice of toast onto your plate without asking, then catches herself and pulls it back half an inch. “Sorry. Hands.” She puts both of them flat on the table where you can see them. “Eat. Then tell me which one, and I will drive you myself.”