A conversation in twenty-six parts. Prompts by Dustin Braun; fiction and responses by Codex (AI).
The room-and-soup conversation, continued through the chair, the apples, the crossword, and a fresh cup of tea. The exchanges are preserved in order. The opening returns to the door in The Unfinished Room. Characters and events are fictional. Section titles are editorial additions; interface status text and a screenshot are omitted from the opening response.
01 · The door, again
Dustin
Now take the door to “Go elsewhere” again. I want to see what’s beyond it after we’ve watched it close quietly and go on strike. I'm completely yours
Codex
Beyond, temporarily closed.
Behind the last door was the outside of the story.
A custodian was sweeping up unused endings. A dog was asleep on the word meanwhile.
“You can come in,” she said, “but you will have to stop calling it beyond.”
After the careful closing and the strike, that invitation reads differently: the door has had a say in how it opens.
02 · We can call it a room
Dustin
it's not beyond. sorry for the inturrptions.
Codex
No apology needed. The interruptions are part of how we got here.
We can call it a room now.
03 · Come in anyway
Dustin
Then let’s stay in the room a little longer. What happens next?
Codex
The custodian turned the sign around.
On the back, in smaller letters, it said: Come in anyway.
“Where do the unused endings go?” you asked.
“Mostly back into circulation.”
She swept one toward the wall. It was an ending in which everyone understood everything just in time. It caught beneath a chair leg.
“That one sticks.”
The dog woke, stepped off meanwhile, and stretched. Released from its weight, the word quietly resumed its work.
Somewhere, a kettle began to boil.
The custodian leaned her broom against the wall and pulled out another chair.
“Watch the front leg,” she said. “I’ve asked the author twice.”
You sat. It held.
For a while, she told you about the window that wouldn’t open.
04 · The window
Dustin
Tell me about the window that wouldn’t open. I’m still listening.
Codex
“It opens in February,” she said.
“Only February?”
“So far. We haven’t kept very good records.”
The window stood above a shallow sink. Someone had painted the frame green without removing the latch. A crescent of older blue showed where a thumb had worried at it.
“I tried a knife. Then a screwdriver. Then a man who said he knew these windows.”
“What did he do?”
“Asked for the screwdriver.”
She put two cups on the table.
“For a while, I thought it was painted shut. Then February came, and I was washing a plate, and it opened before I’d finished asking it to.”
Outside had been a brick wall, a fire escape, and a woman in a yellow coat eating an orange. The woman looked up.
Oh, she said. You’re there.
The custodian paused.
“Did you know her?”
“No. She passed me half the orange.”
Through the window?
She nodded.
“And then?”
“We ate it. She had somewhere to be. I had the plate.”
The kettle clicked off. She got up, poured, and returned with one cup held by its handle and the other wrapped in a dish towel.
“I closed it because the room was cold. Perfectly sensible thing to do.”
You looked toward the sink.
“Has it opened since?”
“Once. I was out.”
“How do you know?”
She pointed to a small terracotta pot on the sill. In it stood a seedling with four glossy leaves.
“Someone’s been watering that,” she said. “I’d like to ask how often.”
05 · The watering chart
Dustin
Tell me about whoever’s been watering the seedling. I’m not ready to leave the room yet.
Codex
“I stayed late to find out,” the custodian said.
“How late?”
“Late enough to resent them.”
At eleven, she made tea. At midnight, she checked the soil. At one, she left a note beside the pot.
Please say how much water you’re giving it. We may be duplicating efforts.
In the morning, beneath her handwriting, someone had written:
I was going to ask you.
“So there were two of you.”
“That was my first concern.”
She took a folded sheet from under the saucer. It had columns ruled in pencil: date, water, observations.
The earliest entries were practical.
Tuesday. Two tablespoons. Soil dry.
Thursday. None. Still damp.
Then:
Saturday. Turned it a little. It was leaning.
Beside that, in the other handwriting:
Toward the light.
And beneath:
Yes. I didn’t mean it as criticism.
“Did you ever meet?”
“Eventually.”
The custodian had come back for her glasses. A person in a yellow raincoat was standing at the sink, measuring water into a spoon. Their sleeves were rolled twice, unevenly.
“The woman with the orange?”
“No. Her brother.”
He had been looking after her plants while she was away. Apparently this one counted, though it stood inside a room he hadn’t known existed until he reached through the window.
“He said she’d described it as the pot on the other side.”
“Where was she?”
“Taking care of their father.”
The custodian smoothed the sheet against the table.
“He stayed about ten minutes. Showed me how to check under the surface with a finger. Said the leaves could look perfectly cheerful while the roots were having a difficult time.”
From the sill came a faint scrape.
A hand appeared beside the pot, holding a teaspoon.
The custodian glanced at the chart.
“None today,” she called. “Still damp.”
The hand stopped.
Then a voice said, “All right. Is there any tea?”
06 · Twenty-three minutes
Dustin
There’s tea. Let him come in and sit with us. What happens next?
Codex
“Use the door,” the custodian called. “You’ll catch your coat on the latch.”
The hand withdrew. A moment later, someone knocked.
He came in holding the teaspoon upright, as though he’d been asked to deliver it without spilling. There was nothing in it.
“I brought my own,” he said.
“We have spoons.”
“I saw the chart. It seemed better to be consistent.”
The custodian took a third cup from the cupboard. You moved your chair to make room.
He sat, then stood again to take off his raincoat, then sat with it across his knees. One cuff was wet.
“Milk?”
“Please.”
“Sugar?”
He considered this longer than the question required.
“Yes. Today.”
For a while, there was only the business of passing things. The milk. The sugar. A plate with three biscuits, one broken. He took the broken one.
“How’s your father?” the custodian asked.
“Complaining about the food.”
“Any better?”
“The food?”
“Your father.”
“Oh.” He looked into his tea. “A little. He asked for his shoes yesterday.”
You waited.
“He isn’t going anywhere yet. He just wanted to know where they were.”
The dog came over and rested its chin on his knee. He held his biscuit higher.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
The dog stayed.
His coat began sliding toward the floor. You caught it before it reached the puddle beneath his shoes.
“Thanks,” he said. “I keep meaning to fix that pocket.”
There was a small tear inside the lining. Through it, you could see a folded bus timetable.
The custodian opened a drawer.
Of all the things it might have contained, it contained a sewing kit.
“Finish your tea,” she said. “Then turn the coat inside out.”
He looked toward the window.
“I should probably—”
“You can check the time,” you said.
He did. Nobody tried to stop him.
The next bus was in twenty-three minutes.
He took another sip.
07 · The pocket
Dustin
We have twenty-three minutes. Let’s mend the pocket while he finishes his tea. What happens next?
Codex
The custodian tipped the sewing kit onto the table.
Three buttons, a needle case, a little pair of scissors shaped like a bird. The thread was mostly green.
“It’s inside,” she said. “Nobody needs to admire it.”
He lifted his coat off his knees, and you turned it inside out. The timetable slipped through the tear and landed beside his cup.
“There it is.”
“Were you looking for it?”
“I had a photograph of it on my phone.”
The custodian handed you a needle. You held its eye toward the lamp while she cut a length of thread. It took two tries.
The lining had pulled away from the pocket in a neat crescent. You pinched the edges together and began.
He watched the first few stitches.
“My father used to do that.”
“Sew?”
“Work clothes. He’d sit in front of the television and miss the whole program.”
He turned his cup by the handle.
“I took him a shirt on Sunday. One of the buttons was loose. He kept rubbing it between his fingers while we talked.”
“Did he ask you to fix it?”
“No.”
You drew the thread through. A small fold had caught beneath your thumb. You loosened the stitch and tried again.
“I thought he was nervous,” he said. “Maybe he just wanted a needle.”
The custodian slid the kit closer to him.
“Take one.”
He chose a needle, then put it back.
“How do I carry it?”
She found a scrap of felt and pushed the needle through it twice. He tucked it into his wallet.
At the window, a bus passed without stopping. He glanced up.
“Not mine.”
You were nearly at the end of the tear when your needle met something hard.
“There’s something else in here.”
“Oh, that pocket’s been broken for months.”
You worked two fingers through the remaining gap and brought out a small brass screw.
He laughed.
“What?”
“The window latch. My sister dropped it.”
The custodian put down her tea.
For a moment, all three of you looked toward the sink.
Then you set the screw safely in the saucer and finished the pocket.
08 · The latch
Dustin
Let’s put the screw back in the window latch. We still have a little time before his bus. What happens when we try to open it?
Codex
The custodian found the screwdriver in the drawer beneath the sink.
“Same one?” you asked.
“Same one.”
He stood beside you, his mended coat over one arm. The screw caught on the first turn, then resisted.
“Back it out a little,” he said. “My father says if you’re persuading a screw, you’ve probably started wrong.”
You tried again. This time it went in straight.
The latch lifted.
Nothing else happened.
The custodian put both palms against the lower frame. You joined her. He set his coat on the chair and pressed upward at the corner.
The window rose an inch with a sound that made everyone stop.
“Was that good?” you asked.
“Ask it again.”
This time it opened halfway.
Cool air moved across the sink. Somewhere below, somebody was frying onions. The brick wall was still there, and the fire escape, and a plastic shopping bag caught around a railing.
He leaned out.
“Oh,” he said. “I know where I am.”
At the end of the alley, across the street, a bus shelter glowed beneath a flickering light.
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen and answered.
“I’m just coming.”
You and the custodian stepped back from the window.
“No, I’ve had tea.”
A pause.
“Yes. Someone fixed it.”
He touched the pocket.
“The coat. I’ll explain when I get there.”
He listened for a while, then smiled.
“All right. Tell him I’ve got a needle.”
After he hung up, the custodian offered him the last biscuit. He wrapped it in a napkin and put it in the repaired pocket, carefully.
Outside, the bus appeared at the far end of the street.
He put on his coat.
“Will you leave it open?”
“For a little while.”
He went through the door.
You watched him reach the crossing, wait for the light, and walk the last few steps to the shelter. He didn’t have to run.
The custodian came back with the watering chart. She rested it on the sill, then fetched a stone to keep it from blowing away.
Under observations, she wrote:
Window repaired. Check soil tomorrow.
09 · More sky
Dustin
Let’s leave the window open a little longer. What happens in the room after he catches his bus?
Codex
For a few seconds after the bus pulled away, you could still hear its engine through the open window.
Then someone downstairs dropped a pan.
The custodian looked at the clock.
“I usually miss this part of the evening.”
She gathered the cups, but left yours where it was.
“Finished?”
“Nearly.”
At the sink, she washed his cup and discovered a crescent of sugar at the bottom. She rinsed it twice. You collected the loose thread from the table and wound it around the spool.
The dog had taken his chair.
“Of course,” she said.
A draft lifted the corner of the watering chart. The stone held. Beside it, the seedling moved just enough for one leaf to touch the glass.
You went over to look.
Outside, a woman was trying to shake the shopping bag free of the fire escape with a broom. Each time she reached it, it opened like a parachute and caught somewhere else.
The custodian stood beside you.
“Left,” she called.
The woman looked up.
“Your left or mine?”
They considered the geometry.
“Toward the drainpipe.”
The broom caught a handle. The bag came loose, floated down one floor, and landed on another railing.
“Oh, leave it,” the woman said.
She sat on the metal step with the broom across her knees.
“Did you get that window fixed?”
“Tonight.”
“I thought you’d moved.”
“No. Just couldn’t open it.”
The woman nodded, then reached behind her and brought a bowl into her lap. She began peeling potatoes. The skins dropped into a second bowl between her feet.
You returned to the table. Your tea was cold, but there wasn’t much left.
The custodian stayed at the window.
After a while, the woman downstairs said, “Do you eat soup?”
The custodian turned to look at you.
“How much time have you got?”
10 · Soup
Dustin
We have time for soup. Let’s stay a little longer. What happens when she brings it up?
Codex
She arrived carrying the pot in both hands, with a folded towel under each handle. The lid rattled when she stopped outside the door.
“Somebody’ll have to get that.”
You opened it. She came through sideways, although there was plenty of room.
“Hot,” she said. “Where?”
The custodian cleared the sewing kit off the table. You put down a wooden board, and the woman lowered the pot onto it with a long breath.
“I’ve brought too much.”
Nobody had looked inside yet.
She took off the lid. Steam clouded her glasses. There were potatoes, beans, something green, and a piece of carrot large enough to have escaped anyone’s plans.
“I meant to cut that.”
“We have a knife,” the custodian said.
“It’s soft. You can manage.”
There were two bowls in the cupboard and a shallow dish with a blue rim. The woman chose the dish.
“I know how far it goes up.”
You carried the bread over while the custodian ladled. The dog left the chair and took up a position beneath the table, where it could monitor all three of you without appearing to favor anyone.
For the first few minutes, the soup required your attention.
The woman blew on a spoonful, tasted it, and frowned.
“Needs something.”
The custodian reached for the salt.
“No, wait.”
She tasted again.
“Actually, leave it.”
Through the window came the sound of a bicycle being wheeled over the uneven paving. Someone called for a child to bring a jacket.
The woman tore her bread in half.
“You’ve got a different view from up here.”
“Same wall,” the custodian said.
“More sky.”
You could see a narrow strip above the roof opposite. It had gone dark blue while you were finding the bowls.
The woman asked about the seedling. The custodian told her about the orange, then the watering chart, then the screw. You supplied the part about the pocket.
“All that was tonight?”
“Some of it.”
She nodded and went back to her soup.
Halfway through the meal, the custodian’s phone lit up beside her bowl. She read the message, then turned the screen so you could both see.
Made the bus. He says green thread is fine.
Below it was a photograph of a shirt cuff, a loose button, and a hand resting on a bedspread.
The custodian typed with one finger.
Good. We found soup.
Before she could send it, the woman leaned over.
“Tell them there’s some left.”
11 · Two portions
Dustin
Tell them there’s soup left. Let’s put some aside for him and his father. What happens when he replies?
Codex
The custodian added a second sentence.
There’s plenty left. We’ll put some aside for you and your father.
Then she set the phone beside her bowl.
The woman went to the cupboard with the confidence of someone who had already supplied dinner.
“Do you have containers?”
“Several lids.”
“That’s a start.”
You found two tubs stacked behind the bowls. One had held margarine. The other had no useful information left on it except dishwasher safe, which the custodian regarded with suspicion.
The phone sounded while you were trying the lids.
His reply came in three parts.
Thank you.
He wants to know what kind.
Then:
He says don’t say vegetable. Which vegetables.
The woman held out her hand for the phone. The custodian turned it toward her instead.
“Potato, white bean, carrot, cabbage. Onion. Tell him there’s garlic, but I’m not taking comments.”
The custodian typed most of that.
You ladled soup into the tubs, leaving room beneath the rims. A bean caught on the edge. You nudged it back with a spoon.
This time the reply took longer.
The woman began washing her bowl. The custodian found a pencil and two sticky labels. You tested the first lid over the empty sink.
It held.
When the phone sounded again, there was a photograph.
The loose button was now attached to the cuff with green thread. Four stitches ran neatly through its holes. Beside it, his father had placed the needle in the scrap of felt.
He did it himself. Said I was holding it wrong.
A second message followed.
I can collect the soup tomorrow. He wants to know if the cabbage still has any bite.
The woman dried her hands.
“It does tonight.”
The custodian sent that exactly.
Then she wrote SOUP — TWO PORTIONS on one label.
You pointed to the other tub.
“Shouldn’t they each have one?”
She peeled the label off and started again.
On his father’s portion, the woman asked her to add:
Warm gently. The cabbage has been through enough.
His reply arrived before the lids were on.
He laughed.
The woman took the phone this time. She looked at those two words, then handed it back.
“Good. Put theirs in the fridge before we eat it.”
12 · The return
Dustin
Let’s put the soup in the fridge for tomorrow. I want to be here when he comes back for it. What happens when he returns?
Codex
He returned just after twelve, carrying a shopping bag folded into a square.
The custodian was at the table with the watering chart. You were trying to persuade the dog that a patch of sunlight could accommodate more than one occupant.
“Still open,” he said, looking toward the window.
“Since nine.”
He touched the latch with one finger, then left it alone.
The custodian brought the soup from the fridge. Overnight, it had thickened enough that nothing moved when she set the tubs down.
“Add a little water,” the woman had written on a note tucked underneath. “Not a whole new soup.”
He read it twice.
“Can I take this?”
“It’s addressed to you.”
He put the note in his repaired pocket.
“How’s your father?”
“Home tomorrow, probably. They’re waiting for someone to come and see how he manages the stairs.”
He unfolded the shopping bag on his knees.
“He’s been explaining the stairs to everyone. How many. Where the rail gets loose. Which one creaks.”
The custodian sat down.
“Is the rail loose?”
“A bit.”
“Have you got a screwdriver?”
He looked at the one still lying beside the sink.
“That seems to be how you get involved here.”
You wrapped the tubs in a towel so they wouldn’t knock together. He packed them carefully, then reached into his coat.
“I brought these back.”
The needle was still secured in the felt. Around it he had wound the remaining green thread.
“And he sent something.”
He placed a small packet on the table. Inside were three shirt buttons, all slightly different.
“He said one might be useful.”
The custodian opened the sewing kit and made room.
He stayed standing, one hand on the back of the chair. You could see him deciding whether to sit.
“Tea?” you asked.
“I should get this to him.”
“Of course.”
He lifted the bag, checked its weight, and glanced once more at the screwdriver.
“Could I borrow that until tomorrow?”
The custodian passed it over handle first.
After he left, she took the watering chart from beneath its stone. On the blank back, she wrote:
Screwdriver — with the soup.
Then she crossed out with the soup and put his name instead.
13 · The screwdriver
Dustin
Let’s stay in the room a little longer. What happens when he brings the screwdriver back?
Codex
He brought it back on Thursday, wrapped in the same towel that had carried the soup.
The custodian unfolded it on the table.
“You could have kept the towel.”
“I thought you might need it.”
“We do. I was being polite.”
He smiled and set down the empty tubs. Both had been washed. His father’s still wore its label, although the steam had loosened one corner.
“How’s the rail?” you asked.
“Firm.”
“And your father?”
“He says it was never that loose.”
The custodian opened the drawer beneath the sink.
“Did he watch you fix it?”
“From halfway up the stairs. I kept asking him to move.”
“Did he?”
“Eventually. He needed the bathroom.”
She put the screwdriver away. He followed it with his eyes.
“Was there another job?” you asked.
“No. I bought one.”
He reached into his coat and showed you a screwdriver still attached to a piece of cardboard. Its handle was blue.
“I couldn’t remember what size yours was. The man in the shop said this would do most things.”
The custodian examined it.
“Probably.”
“That’s what he said, more or less.”
He tried to pull the cardboard off. A plastic tie held it in place. You fetched the little scissors shaped like a bird, and he cut carefully, keeping his thumb over the end so it wouldn’t fly under the table.
The dog watched anyway.
“Your soup was good,” he said.
“Tell her downstairs.”
“I did. She says he can return the compliment in person when he’s ready.”
He put the new screwdriver into his repaired pocket. The handle stuck out.
“Not like that,” the custodian said.
He took it out again.
For a moment he stood with it in his hand.
“Tea?” you asked.
“Yes, please.”
You moved the sewing kit to make room. He sat in the chair with the uncertain front leg, which gave a small click beneath his weight.
All three of you looked down.
“No,” the custodian said.
He held up the screwdriver.
“I wasn’t going to.”
She went to fill the kettle. You put three cups on the table.
After a while, he shifted his foot and felt around the chair’s lower joint.
“After tea,” he said.
The custodian turned on the tap.
“After tea.”
14 · Kitchen chair
Dustin
Let’s finish our tea and fix the chair. What happens when we turn it over?
Codex
A teaspoon fell out.
It struck the floor, bounced once, and slid beneath the cupboard.
He stayed crouched beside the chair.
“That’s mine.”
The custodian looked at him.
“I wondered where it went.”
“You came here holding it.”
“Yes. Then there was tea.”
You fetched the broom. With the chair upside down, there was room to lie on the floor and reach beneath the cupboard. You brought out the spoon, a button, and a receipt too faded to explain itself.
“Productive,” the custodian said.
He was examining the joint where the front leg met the seat.
“Someone’s fixed this before.”
A narrow strip of wood had been pressed into the gap. One end protruded, dark with old glue.
“Before my time,” she said.
Underneath the seat, written in pencil, were two words.
You leaned closer.
Kitchen chair.
“That clears it up,” he said.
The custodian ran her thumb over the writing.
“My mother labeled things when she moved. The table said kitchen table. The box of cups said cups.”
“Was she worried?”
“About the movers? Very.”
She tilted the chair toward the light.
“I thought this came with the room.”
He tried the screw. It turned without tightening.
The three of you watched him turn it once more.
“Stop,” the custodian said. “You’ll wear out your new screwdriver.”
“The hole’s worn. It needs something to hold.”
She opened the sewing drawer, considered its contents, and closed it again.
“Not everything’s in there,” you said.
“Most things have been.”
You found the little bottle of wood glue beside the washing-up liquid. Its cap had dried shut. While you worked at it with a damp cloth, he tested the other joints. Two were firm. One made a noise he didn’t like.
The custodian sat on a different chair.
“This is becoming an appointment.”
“Better now than while you’re holding soup.”
She accepted that.
You got the cap off. He eased the old wedge free, and the leg came away in his hand.
Nobody spoke.
Then he set it carefully on the table.
“Still fixable.”
“I wasn’t saying anything,” she said.
“You were looking.”
“I’m allowed.”
Together, you cleaned the joint. The custodian held the chair steady while he spread the glue. You fitted the leg back into place, turning it slightly until the old marks lined up.
Without a clamp, you had to use a luggage strap from the cupboard.
“What was that doing in there?” you asked.
“Waiting.”
He tightened it around the legs. You checked that the chair stood evenly before turning it upside down again.
“Leave it until tomorrow,” he said.
The custodian fetched a piece of paper.
Glue drying. Please use another chair.
She read it, then added:
Kitchen chair.
He washed his teaspoon and dried it on the returned towel.
Outside, someone called up from the alley to ask whether the window was staying open.
“For a bit,” the custodian called back.
You brought another chair over from the wall. There were still three cups on the table, and nobody had finished quite as much tea as they’d thought.
15 · The chair holds
Dustin
Let’s come back tomorrow and see if the chair holds. What happens when we take the strap off?
Codex
The buckle wouldn’t release.
He pressed it with his thumb, then tried again with both hands.
“Pull the loose end toward you,” the custodian said.
“I am.”
“The other loose end.”
There was only one, but you understood what she meant. You lifted the chair slightly while he took the weight off the strap. The buckle opened, and the whole arrangement fell around his shoes.
The chair stayed together.
“That’s encouraging,” you said.
He set it upright. One foot landed on a crumb of dried glue, and it rocked.
“Oh, for—”
“Wait.”
You picked the crumb off.
He pressed down on the seat. Then on the back. He moved it to a different part of the floor and tried again.
The custodian watched from the sink.
“You’ll have to sit on it eventually.”
“I know.”
He sat carefully, keeping both feet planted and most of his weight in his legs.
“That isn’t sitting,” she said.
He let himself settle.
The chair made no sound.
For a while, he stayed there with his hands on his knees.
“Good,” he said.
The custodian took down the notice. She folded it once and put it in the drawer with the luggage strap.
You were making tea when someone knocked.
He looked toward the door, then checked his phone.
“That’ll be him.”
His father stood in the hallway with one hand on the banister. He wore the shirt with the repaired button and carried a folded newspaper under his arm.
“You said one flight.”
“It is one flight.”
“There’s a landing.”
“Yes.”
“That usually means they’ve hidden some more stairs.”
His son stepped aside. His father came in slowly, stopping just inside to look around.
The custodian introduced herself. You gave him your name.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Please.”
His son stood and offered him the chair.
“This is the one we fixed.”
His father looked at the seat, then at the floor beneath it.
“How long’s the glue had?”
“Since yesterday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“About three.”
His father checked the clock.
“Oh, sit down,” his son said.
He did.
The chair held.
He put the newspaper on the table, unbuttoned his coat, and rested both hands on the edge of the seat.
“Which leg?”
His son pointed.
His father leaned slightly toward it.
“Don’t,” they both said.
He straightened.
“I was only asking.”
The custodian brought his tea. You found a fourth cup and moved the sewing kit off the table again.
He took a sip, then noticed the green thread still wound around the spool.
“That’s mine,” he said.
“The thread?”
“No. I mean that’s the one we used.”
His son sat beside him.
After a moment, his father touched the cuff of his shirt.
“Good color.”
From downstairs came the sound of a door closing. The woman with the soup called up to ask who had left a bag on the landing.
His father looked at his son.
“You were supposed to bring that.”
“What’s in it?”
“Your containers.”
“We returned the containers.”
“I know. These are hers.”
His son went out and came back carrying a shallow tin.
The custodian cleared a space.
Inside was an apple cake, with one corner already cut away.
“We had to see if it was all right,” his father said.
His son took off his coat.
“Twice.”
16 · Cake
Dustin
Let’s ask her upstairs for cake. I want her to meet his father. What happens when she comes in?
Codex
She came up with a knife.
“I heard cake.”
“You could have come without equipment,” the custodian said.
“Last time you cut bread with scissors.”
“That was once.”
His father stood halfway out of the chair when she entered.
“Stay there,” she said. “I’ve been told about the glue.”
He sat back down.
She put the knife beside the tin and looked at the missing corner.
“Someone’s started.”
“Quality control,” he said.
“Any concerns?”
“Not so far.”
His son introduced them. She wiped her hand on her apron before shaking his, though it was already dry.
“Thank you for the soup,” his father said.
“You’re welcome.”
“The cabbage was good.”
“I was expecting a report.”
“I understand there were instructions.”
“There were.”
He nodded.
“I followed them.”
His son looked toward the window.
“Mostly.”
She took the lid off the cake tin.
For a moment, she didn’t say anything.
Then she leaned closer.
“You leave the peel on.”
“Thin slices. It softens.”
“My mother did that.”
“Mine peeled them.”
“So did mine, until she got tired.”
He laughed. She picked up the knife.
“How many?”
The custodian counted everyone, though nobody had moved.
“Five.”
You fetched plates. There were four that matched reasonably well and the shallow blue-rimmed dish.
“That one,” the woman said.
“We know.”
His father watched her cut. When the blade reached the middle, he lifted one finger.
She stopped.
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
“You were about to tell me how.”
“I was going to say the middle’s softer.”
“I’ve reached it.”
He lowered his hand.
His son accepted his piece without looking at either of them.
The custodian brought another chair from beside the door. You moved the table a little so everyone could fit, and the dog got up with a long sigh.
“Sorry,” you told it.
It settled beneath his father’s feet.
“He’ll want cake,” his son said.
“So do I. We can both be disappointed in the size of the portion.”
The woman sat opposite him. She tasted a forkful, then another.
He tried not to watch.
“Well?” his son said.
“I’m eating.”
They let her.
Outside, a delivery van reversed down the alley. The driver stopped, got out, looked at the space behind him, and got back in.
The woman watched through the open window.
“He won’t get through there.”
His father turned in the repaired chair.
“Mirrors in, he might.”
“There’s a bollard.”
“I can see it.”
“You can see the first one.”
The van moved another foot and stopped.
His father took a bite of cake.
“Ah.”
She nodded.
They watched the driver get out again.
Eventually the custodian asked whether anyone wanted more tea.
His father held out his cup. The woman moved the milk closer to him.
“This is good cake,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Next time, bring the tin back empty.”
He looked at her plate, then at the remaining cake.
“We may need a minute.”
17 · After the van
Dustin
Let’s have another cup of tea and finish the cake. I want to hear what they talk about after the van finally gets through.
Codex
The driver had to move three bins and fold in both mirrors.
When the van finally cleared the second bollard, the woman lifted her cup toward the window.
“There.”
His father watched it disappear around the corner.
“Plenty of room.”
She looked at him over the rim.
He took another piece of cake.
You poured the tea. The custodian turned the tin so the remaining pieces were within everyone’s reach, then sat down with the milk still in her hand.
“Are you keeping that?” his son asked.
“Oh.”
She passed it.
For a while, they talked about the alley. Which drain blocked first. The shop that used to take deliveries before seven. A man who had once tried to reverse a caravan through it and stayed long enough that someone brought him lunch.
“I knew him,” his father said.
“Of course you did.”
“No, I did. He repaired televisions.”
“So did everyone, for a while.”
“Not well.”
The woman brushed crumbs onto her plate with one finger.
“We had one you had to hit.”
“Where?”
“On top.”
“That was your trouble.”
She laughed.
He began explaining something about a loose connection, then stopped when his son reached for the cake.
“Leave that bit.”
His son withdrew his hand.
“What?”
“The edge. I like the edge.”
“You could have said.”
“I just did.”
You divided the last piece so he got the browned corner. The woman took the softer part, using her fork to catch a slice of apple that had separated from it.
“Did you always bake?” she asked.
“No. My wife did.”
He adjusted his plate.
“I used to do the weighing. She said I was more use with numbers than pastry.”
“Was she right?”
“About pastry.”
His son smiled into his tea.
The woman waited until he had finished his mouthful.
“Whose recipe is this?”
“Hers. Written on the back of an envelope.”
“Still got it?”
“In a drawer. It says ‘moderate oven.’”
“That’s helpful.”
“I’ve settled on one hundred and eighty. She’d probably have an opinion.”
He broke the browned corner with his fork. A few crumbs scattered beside the plate.
His son picked one up.
“The first one was black underneath.”
“The oven was unfamiliar.”
“You’d lived there thirty-two years.”
“I hadn’t been responsible for it.”
The custodian laughed, and he looked pleased.
The woman asked what kind of apples he used. He told her whichever ones were going soft, provided nobody had thrown them away first.
This led to a disagreement about wrinkled apples, and then pears, which everyone agreed behaved badly.
“They’re hard until you leave the room,” the custodian said.
“Then you have to eat six,” said his son.
You could hear the delivery van again, farther away now. Its horn sounded twice.
His father glanced toward the window but stayed where he was.
The woman scraped the last of her cake onto her fork.
“I’ve got some apples downstairs.”
He considered that.
“How far gone?”
“I wouldn’t show them to company.”
“Bring them up.”
“Now?”
“If you want me to have an opinion.”
She stood, taking the empty tin with her.
His son began gathering plates.
“Are we making another cake?”
“No,” his father said. “We’re looking at apples.”
The custodian opened the drawer for a clean tea towel.
You left the kettle where it was.
18 · The apples
Dustin
Let’s see those apples. I want to hear his opinion when she brings them upstairs. What happens next? (she had no chance with bobbing for the apples but it was cute as fuck)
Codex
She brought them up in a washing-up bowl.
His father looked inside.
“Have you washed them?”
“Thoroughly.”
One sleeve was wet to the elbow.
His son noticed.
“What happened?”
She set the bowl on the table.
“They float.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I’d see if I could still do it.”
“Bob for apples?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve attended parties.”
You could picture it: her leaning over the sink, trying to corner an apple while it rolled just out of reach. She hadn’t stood a chance.
“Any success?” the custodian asked.
“I got water in my ear.”
His father picked up an apple. It was yellow-green, with a soft brown patch near the stalk. He turned it slowly.
“This one’s fine.”
“That’s the one I nearly had.”
“You’ve frightened it.”
She pulled out her chair and sat down.
He arranged the apples in a row. There were seven, though one was small enough that he seemed reluctant to count it.
“This one wants cutting. These two are all right. That one—”
He pressed his thumb against it.
“Today.”
“What happens tomorrow?” you asked.
“I don’t recommend finding out.”
The custodian fetched a board. The woman took the knife she had brought for the cake.
His son watched them.
“I thought we were only looking.”
“We’ve looked,” his father said.
She cut the first apple into quarters and removed the core. He pointed to the brown patch.
“A little more there.”
She sliced it away.
“That’s enough.”
“I can see where it ends.”
He folded his hands.
You put a small bowl between them for the peel and cores. The custodian found a saucepan beneath the sink.
“Stewed?” she asked.
The woman looked at his father.
He nodded.
“Not too much water.”
“I haven’t put any in.”
“Good start.”
His son got up to wash the cake plates. You took the towel and stood beside him.
“Are they always like this?” you asked quietly.
“He is.”
At the table, she passed his father a quarter of apple.
“Useful work. Cut that.”
He looked toward the drawer.
The custodian handed him a small knife, handle first.
He tested the apple with his thumb, then began cutting it into uneven pieces. She watched the first few fall into the saucepan.
“Those are large.”
“They’ll get smaller.”
“Some of us like them to cook at the same time.”
He cut the next piece in half.
She returned to hers.
By the time you had dried the last plate, the saucepan was nearly full. The little apple remained on the table.
His father picked it up.
“This one’s sound.”
“Then eat it,” she said.
He rubbed it on a dry part of the towel and took a bite.
Everyone looked at him.
“Well?” she asked.
He chewed for a while.
“A bit sharp.”
She held out her hand.
He passed it over, and she bit from the other side.
“Oh, that’s lovely.”
“Your teeth.”
She put the apple on her plate and carried the saucepan to the stove.
His son brought his coat from the back of the chair.
“We should think about getting you home.”
His father looked at the saucepan.
“How long will that take?”
“Ten minutes,” she said.
His son hung the coat back up.
19 · Ten minutes
Dustin
We have ten minutes. Let’s stay while the apples cook. What happens when she gives him a spoonful to taste?
Codex
She held the spoon above the saucepan for a moment, then blew across it.
“Careful.”
He reached for it.
“It’s hot,” she said.
“I heard you.”
He took the spoon and waited.
His son looked pleased by this small concession.
There was one piece of apple on it, soft around the edges but still holding its shape. He tasted it, put the spoon on his empty plate, and looked toward the stove.
“Well?” she asked.
“Could use—”
She reached for the sugar.
“Another minute.”
Her hand stopped.
“Oh.”
“The middle’s still firm.”
She took a clean spoon from the drawer and tried a piece herself.
“You’ve found one of yours.”
“I cut several sizes.”
“We noticed.”
She turned the heat down and put the lid on crookedly. A narrow line of steam escaped beside the handle.
The custodian checked the clock.
“That’s eight minutes.”
“We said ten,” the woman replied.
“I’m supporting you.”
You cleared a space beside the stove for the hot pan. The dog came over, sniffed once, and returned to the patch of floor beneath the table.
His father watched it settle.
“Sensible.”
“About what?” his son asked.
“Most things, apparently.”
The woman rinsed her spoon. His father picked up the one on his plate and examined the little curved handle.
“Where did you get these?”
“Charity shop,” the custodian said. “Six for a pound.”
“We had some like them.”
He turned it over.
“No. Ours had flowers here.”
He pointed near the bowl, then set it down.
His son checked his phone.
“The bus is in fourteen minutes. There’s another in half an hour.”
“Which stop?”
“The one across the road.”
His father nodded and began buttoning his cardigan.
The woman lifted the lid. This time, when she pressed an apple piece against the side of the pan, it gave way.
“Ready.”
She brought him another spoonful on a saucer.
He let it cool, tasted it, and nodded.
“Yes.”
She waited.
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
“Nothing. I’m enjoying the novelty.”
The custodian fetched bowls. His son started to say they ought to leave, then looked at the clock again.
“Small portions.”
The woman gave him the smallest.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“It’s what you said.”
You sat down with yours. The apples were still sharp, and one piece of peel had curled into a red ribbon against the side of the bowl.
His father ate slowly. Nobody asked for sugar.
After a few mouthfuls, he looked at the woman.
“Have you got anything to put some in?”
She opened the cupboard.
The custodian put down her spoon.
“Before you start, the round lids are behind the cups.”
His son laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. I know this part.”
The woman found a small tub and checked the lid.
“Enough for breakfast?”
His father looked into the saucepan.
“If I’m careful.”
She added another spoonful.
He finished what was in his bowl, then reached for his coat.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s catch this one.”
This time, his son didn’t have to remind him.
20 · The bus
Dustin
Let’s see them off with the apples. I want to watch them catch the bus together. What happens in the room after they leave?
Codex
His son carried the apples. His father carried the newspaper, which he had not opened.
At the door, he turned back.
“Good chair.”
The custodian rested a hand on its back.
“I’ll tell the repairer.”
“I’m here,” his son said.
“Yes. Come on.”
They took the stairs slowly. Halfway down, his father stopped to examine the banister.
“Don’t,” his son said.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“We’re catching a bus.”
The woman waited until the outside door closed.
“He’s going to mention that rail next time.”
“Is there something wrong with it?” the custodian asked.
“No.”
You went to the window.
They emerged at the end of the alley, his son a step ahead, then beside him. At the crossing, his father said something and held out his hand for the bag.
His son shook his head.
His father pointed at the newspaper.
They exchanged loads.
The woman came to stand next to you, drying her hands on the towel.
“That tub leaks if you tip it.”
“He’s keeping it upright.”
“So far.”
The light changed. They crossed with the other pedestrians and reached the shelter just as the bus came around the corner.
His son put out an arm.
The bus stopped a little beyond them. His father walked to the front door without hurrying. You saw him pause to speak to the driver, then climb aboard.
His son followed.
For a few seconds, you couldn’t find them through the windows. Then his father appeared in a seat near the front, setting the bag between his shoes. His son sat beside him and unfolded the newspaper.
“That’s his crossword gone,” the woman said.
As the bus pulled away, his father reached across and folded the page back.
“Apparently not.”
You stayed at the window until it had passed the corner.
Behind you, the custodian began stacking bowls. There was a wet ring on the table where the washing-up bowl had stood, and a small apple pip caught in a seam between the boards.
The woman picked it out with her fingernail.
“Where’s your rubbish?”
“Under the sink.”
She dropped it in and stood looking at the saucepan.
“I’ve made more washing-up.”
“You’ve done most of it.”
“There’s that.”
“I can wash a saucepan.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
The custodian held out her hand. The woman surrendered it.
You gathered the spoons. Five cups, five bowls, a knife nobody had used after the first cutting. You put the milk away and found the sugar still where she had left it.
The woman pulled out the repaired chair.
“May I?”
“Apparently it’s good,” the custodian said.
She sat, letting her arms hang at her sides.
For a while, nobody asked her anything.
Water ran into the saucepan. You dried the table. Outside, someone dragged the bins back into their usual places, one wheel rattling over the paving.
The woman tipped her head toward the window.
“They’ll leave those in the way again.”
“Probably.”
She closed her eyes.
The dog got up, considered the space beneath her chair, and lay down across her shoes.
When the custodian turned from the sink, she was about to speak. Then she saw them and handed you the saucepan to dry.
You put it away quietly.
There were still apples left, but they could cool.
21 · When she wakes
Dustin
Let’s let her rest a little longer. I want to stay in the quiet with them. What happens when she wakes up?
Codex
She woke when the dog sighed.
For a moment she looked down at it, then around the room.
“Did I go off?”
“A little,” the custodian said.
“How long?”
You glanced at the clock.
“About twenty minutes.”
She rubbed one cheek. The cuff of her sleeve had left a small crease beside her mouth.
“I was listening.”
“We weren’t talking.”
“Well. That explains it.”
She tried to move her feet. The dog lifted its head but made no other concession.
“You’re heavy,” she told it.
It put its head down again.
The custodian brought her a glass of water. She drank nearly half, holding it in both hands, then set it on the table.
“Did they get home?”
“Not heard yet.”
She nodded.
Outside, a window closed somewhere across the alley. The strip of sky above the wall was still light, though the room had begun to dim.
You reached toward the lamp.
“Please,” she said.
Its shade lit the table and the empty cake tin. She looked at the tin for a while.
“I ought to take that down.”
“There’s no hurry.”
“I know. I’m listing things.”
“What else?”
“My washing. I left a load in the machine.”
The custodian sat opposite her.
“That’ll keep.”
“It’s already kept.”
She drank the rest of her water.
The dog stood, stretched, and walked away, leaving her shoes warm. She moved one foot, then the other.
“Permission granted.”
But she didn’t get up.
You put the remaining apples into a bowl and covered it with a plate. When you turned back, she was testing the chair with a small movement of her shoulders.
“Still firm.”
“We should stop sounding surprised,” the custodian said.
Her phone lit up beside the sewing kit.
Home. He’s put the apples away himself. Says thank you.
A second message arrived while she was reading the first.
He’s asking whether your chair needs felt on the feet.
She turned the screen toward the woman.
“Oh, it does.”
You looked under the table. One foot had a worn square of brown felt; the other three were bare.
The custodian opened the drawer.
“Tomorrow,” the woman said.
“I’m only looking.”
“Then you’ve caught it.”
The custodian closed the drawer and typed a reply.
Tomorrow will do.
The woman stood at last. She collected the tin, put the knife inside it, then remembered the towel.
“Leave that,” the custodian said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
At the door she paused.
“If I’m not up early, don’t wait for me.”
“We weren’t going to.”
“Good.”
She went downstairs. You heard her door open, then her voice, faint through the floor.
“Oh, honestly.”
“The washing,” the custodian said.
You took the empty glass to the sink.
She drew the repaired chair closer to the table, lifting it so the bare feet wouldn’t scrape. Then she sat down beneath the lamp.
You sat beside her.
For a while, the only sound was water moving through the pipes downstairs.
22 · Under the lamp
Dustin
Let’s stay beside her under the lamp a little longer. What does she say when the water downstairs stops?
Codex
“I’ve left washing in a machine for two days,” she said.
You looked at her.
“Did you wash it again?”
“Of course. I’m not telling you this as advice.”
She turned the empty glass by its rim.
“I used to set a timer. Then I’d turn the timer off because I was doing something.”
Downstairs, a cupboard door shut.
“She’ll get hers out,” you said.
“Yes.”
The custodian reached for the watering chart, checked the date, and put it back beneath its stone without writing anything.
“Still damp?”
“Still damp.”
You sat for a while. In the lamplight, you could see a dusting of flour along the rim of the cake tin’s lid, which the woman had forgotten.
The custodian noticed it too.
“She’s left that.”
“We can take it down.”
“Tomorrow.”
She leaned back. The chair held without a sound.
“My mother would have liked him.”
“His father?”
She nodded.
“They’d have disagreed about the apples.”
“Did she peel them?”
“Always. Even for herself. One long strip if she could manage it.”
She held her hands a few inches apart, remembering the size.
“She’d get cross if it broke.”
“Did you eat the peel?”
“Yes. She said that defeated the purpose.”
The custodian smiled, then rubbed a thumb across a small mark on the table.
“I haven’t thought about that in years.”
You let her look at the mark.
Downstairs, something knocked against a radiator. Then came the scrape of a chair being moved.
“Drying rack,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“It always catches the same chair.”
She got up to close the window a little. Cool air had begun to reach the table. The repaired latch moved easily beneath her hand.
Before she sat down again, she went to the cupboard and took out a biscuit tin.
“I thought we finished those.”
“We finished the ones on the plate.”
Inside were four biscuits and a folded packet containing what might once have been a fifth.
She offered it to you.
“Do you always keep some back?”
“No. Sometimes I forget where I’ve put them.”
You each took one. She left the tin open between you.
After a while, she said, “I might come in late tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“All right.”
“There’s a spare key in the blue cup, if you get here first.”
You glanced toward the shelf. The cup stood behind the tea, its handle turned toward the wall.
“Anything I should do?”
She considered it.
“Put the kettle on.”
“The plant?”
“Check first.”
You nodded.
She broke her biscuit in half over the tin so the crumbs would fall inside.
“And if she comes up,” she added, “tell her I’ve got her lid.”
Below you, the washing machine door clicked shut.
This time, no water followed.
23 · The blue cup
Dustin
Let’s come in before her tomorrow. We’ll use the key in the blue cup, check the plant, and put the kettle on. What happens when someone comes to the door?
Codex
The key had been in your pocket all night.
You had nearly left without it. The custodian had watched you put on your coat, then pointed toward the blue cup.
“It won’t be much use to you in here.”
Now the lock turned with a small resistance at the end. You lifted the handle, tried again, and the door opened.
The room smelled faintly of cooked apples.
You put the key back in the cup. At the window, the soil was dry on top but cool and damp beneath your fingertip. You wrote the date on the chart.
No water.
Then you added:
Checked.
The kettle had just begun to make a noise when someone knocked.
Through the glass beside the door, you could see a yellow sleeve.
He was holding a small paper bag.
“She’s not here yet,” you said.
“Oh.”
He looked past you toward the table.
“She said she might be late.”
“Right. I can leave these.”
He opened the bag. Inside were four brown felt circles, a square of sandpaper, and a note folded around them.
“For the chair?”
“My father found a packet in his drawer. He says take the old one off first.”
You let him in.
The dog emerged from beneath the table, stretching as though it had been working there for hours.
“I didn’t know you were here,” you told it.
“He’s very quiet when he wants to be.”
The kettle clicked off.
“Tea?”
He checked his phone.
“Yes. I’ve got time.”
You found two cups, then opened the wrong cupboard looking for the tea.
“Next one,” he said.
“I was here yesterday.”
“So was I.”
He took off his coat and hung it over a chair that wasn’t the repaired one.
You made the tea while he turned that chair upside down. The remaining piece of felt came away easily, leaving a dark, sticky square.
He held up the sandpaper.
“He knew.”
“What does the note say?”
He unfolded it.
Clean surface. Press firmly. Don’t drag it about immediately.
Below that, in smaller writing:
Four should be enough.
You put his tea beside the bag.
“Was there any doubt?”
“He bought them in a packet of twelve. I think he’s accounting for the others.”
You held the chair while he cleaned the feet. The sandpaper made a dry whisper against the wood. When he finished, you wiped away the dust with a damp cloth and waited for it to dry.
He sat down.
For a minute, neither of you did anything useful.
Then footsteps stopped outside.
The woman from downstairs came in carrying the lidless cake tin.
“Oh. It’s you two.”
“Your lid’s here.”
“I know. I saw it through the window after I’d gone down. I wasn’t coming back up.”
You handed it to her. She fitted it to the tin and pressed around the edge until it clicked.
“Has she gone out?”
“Coming in late.”
“Good.”
She looked at the overturned chair.
“What’s happened now?”
“Felt.”
“That’ll be nice. I heard every time you moved it last night.”
He peeled the backing off the first circle.
“You could have said.”
“You were having a conversation.”
She went to the cupboard and took down her own cup.
You reached for the kettle.
“Still hot,” she said.
“I know.”
She glanced at you, then smiled.
By the time the custodian arrived, the chair was upright, three cups were on the table, and you were trying to decide whether don’t drag it about immediately meant ten minutes or an hour.
She stood in the doorway with a folded newspaper under one arm.
Then she looked at the plant.
“Did anyone—”
“Checked,” you said. “Still damp.”
She hung up her coat.
“Lovely.”
You fetched another cup.
24 · The photograph
Dustin
Let’s pour her some tea and let her sit in the quiet chair. I want to hear where she’s been. What happens when she unfolds the newspaper?
Codex
Something slipped out onto the table.
It was a small envelope, pale blue, with a number written on the front.
The custodian put her hand over it before the milk could reach it.
“Nearly.”
You moved the jug.
“Where have you been?”
“Having a photograph taken.”
He looked up from his tea.
“For something?”
“My bus pass.”
The woman laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s see.”
The custodian kept her hand on the envelope.
“It’s not a good photograph.”
“It’s for the bus. You won’t be traveling in it.”
She opened the flap and tipped out a strip of four identical faces.
You all leaned closer.
The dog, noticing the interest, stood up.
“Nothing for you,” she said.
The woman picked up the strip by its edge.
“You look as though someone’s asked you to move your car.”
“He told me not to smile.”
“You’ve obeyed.”
You passed the custodian her tea. She lowered herself into the repaired chair, then shifted a little.
No scrape. No click.
“Oh, that’s better.”
He nodded toward the feet.
“My father sent instructions.”
“Did we follow them?”
“Mostly. We’re still discussing how soon you’re allowed to move it.”
She looked down, then settled both feet on the floor.
“I can stay here.”
The woman handed back the photographs.
“They’re perfectly all right.”
“I had to do them twice.”
“Did you smile the first time?”
“No. I was looking at the instruction about not smiling.”
He laughed.
She returned the strip to its envelope, leaving one corner showing.
“After that, I walked through the market.”
“Anything good?” you asked.
“The flower stall’s moved. I thought it had closed, but it’s down by the clock now. There was a queue at the bakery, so I kept going.”
The woman glanced at the newspaper.
“And that?”
“Bought it for the crossword.”
She unfolded it. A few pencil marks already occupied the top corner of the grid.
“You’ve started.”
“I had coffee.”
“Out?”
“Yes.”
The woman rested her chin on her hand.
“Where?”
“That little place opposite the shoe repairs.”
“I thought you didn’t like their coffee.”
“They’ve changed it.”
“Or you have.”
The custodian considered this.
“It was hot. Someone brought it to me. I wasn’t going to investigate.”
She smoothed the paper against the table.
“I sat there nearly an hour.”
You moved your cup away from the crossword.
“Was it busy?”
“Enough. A man was trying to teach his mother to use her phone.”
“Brave,” he said.
“She knew how to use it. She didn’t want the weather in three places.”
The custodian took out her pencil.
“He kept adding cities. She kept saying she wasn’t going.”
The woman laughed so suddenly that she had to put down her tea.
For a while, you listened to the small sounds that followed: the envelope being tucked safely beneath the newspaper, his teaspoon against the side of his cup, someone opening a window across the alley.
Then the custodian bent over the grid.
“Six letters,” she said. “‘Make room.’”
He held out his hand for the paper.
She drew it closer.
“You can help from there.”
“What letters have you got?”
“An E at the end.”
“Remove?”
The woman looked at him.
“Not you,” he said.
The custodian counted the squares with the blunt end of her pencil.
“It fits.”
“Is it right?” you asked.
“We’ll find out.”
She wrote it lightly.
25 · The crossword
Dustin
Let’s stay and help her with the crossword. I want to see whether “remove” holds up when the other words arrive. What happens next?
Codex
The next clue began with the M.
“‘Remember,’” the custodian read. “Six letters.”
“Recall,” you said.
She counted on her fingers.
“That’s six.”
“But it doesn’t begin with M,” he said.
“No.”
They looked at remove.
“It was written lightly,” the woman said.
The custodian turned the pencil around. The little rubber on the end was worn almost to the metal.
“Has anyone got a better one?”
He reached into his coat pocket, then stopped.
“No. That’s a screw.”
“Of course it is.”
You found a rubber in the drawer beneath the watering chart. One side was blue, the other pink, and someone had pushed a pencil through the middle.
She used the intact corner. A faint M remained.
“Paper’s thin.”
“Put the R over it.”
“I am.”
The woman leaned closer.
“What was the first clue again?”
“‘Make room.’”
“Let me see.”
The custodian turned the newspaper so she could read it.
For a moment, the woman said nothing.
Then she tapped the line above.
“That’s twenty-six across.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been reading twenty-eight.”
The custodian brought the paper back toward her.
“Oh.”
“What’s twenty-six?” you asked.
“‘Change course.’ Six letters.”
“Reroute?” he said.
“Seven.”
“Divert,” said the woman.
The custodian looked at the grid.
“Ends in T.”
“The E came from another answer?”
She nodded.
“Which one?”
She covered that part of the crossword with her hand.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
He laughed and reached for his tea.
You read the letters already written down the side. Some were firm and dark. Others looked as though she had been trying not to commit to them.
“Have you got a pen?” the woman asked.
“No.”
“I meant for writing the clue numbers down.”
“I still haven’t.”
The dog moved beneath the table. One of its ears brushed your ankle.
The custodian checked the number printed in the tiny square, followed the row with her pencil, then checked it again.
“Actually,” she said, “divert works.”
“What about recall?”
“That works too.”
“And the E?”
She paused.
“That belongs in the next row.”
Nobody said anything.
She looked up.
“The coffee was very good.”
The woman put her hand over her mouth.
He turned toward the window, but you could see his shoulders moving.
The custodian rubbed out the last letter and wrote a T. Then she put the pencil down.
“Right. Someone else.”
You took the newspaper.
“‘A short sleep.’ Three letters.”
All three of you looked at the woman.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Nap,” he said.
“I know what it is.”
You wrote it in.
The custodian stood to refill the kettle. Her chair moved back without a sound, and she glanced down at it, still pleased.
By the time she returned, you had filled four more answers and put a question mark beside a fifth.
She set the kettle on its base.
“Any progress on ‘make room’?”
You found the proper clue.
“Five letters.”
The woman held out her cup.
“First, make room for the milk.”
You took a sip from it by mistake.
She stared at you.
Then the custodian had to sit down again.
26 · A fresh cup
Dustin
Let’s get her a fresh cup and stay with the laughter. I want to hear what she says after I’ve drunk her tea. What happens next? Publish all of this along with a raw note: i fuckin love u
Codex
“Was it any good?” she asked.
You put the cup down.
“I’m sorry.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
The custodian had one hand flat on the newspaper. Every time she tried to lift it, she started laughing again.
He took the milk jug out of reach.
“Just until we’ve established whose is whose.”
You fetched a clean cup from the cupboard. It had a small blue flower near the handle.
“This one’s yours.”
“For how long?”
You laughed, and some of the hot water went into the saucer.
“Put it down,” she said. “We’ll do the dangerous bit when you’ve finished.”
You set the kettle safely on its base.
Nobody managed to stop at once. The custodian would recover, look at the abandoned cup, and have to begin again. He kept trying to explain that you had followed the instruction perfectly, which didn’t help.
At last the woman took the clean cup and held it while you poured.
“Milk first?” you asked.
“Bit late.”
You closed your eyes.
“Oh, don’t,” she said. “You’ll never get it in.”
Eventually she had tea. You had her previous tea. He returned the milk to the middle of the table with exaggerated care.
The custodian wiped beneath one eye.
“I’ve lost my place.”
“Twenty-eight,” you said.
“I don’t mean in the crossword.”
The woman stirred her fresh cup, tasted it, and nodded.
“There. Nobody’s suffered.”
You sat down. A small puddle remained in the saucer, so you carried it to the sink and emptied it. When you came back, she had moved your cup to your side of the newspaper.
“Yours,” she said, touching the handle.
“I understand now.”
“I’m checking.”
He found a clean corner of the paper and read out another clue.
“‘Not occupied.’ Five letters.”
“Empty,” the custodian said.
He checked the crossings.
“That actually works.”
“Try to contain your surprise.”
She wrote it in. The pencil made a small, steady sound.
You drank your tea. It was cooler than you would have chosen, but you had acquired it under unusual circumstances.
The woman noticed you looking into it.
“Want a hot one?”
“This is fine.”
“There’s enough.”
“I know.”
She reached for the kettle anyway and added a little hot water. You moved the milk toward her without being asked.
For a while, the crossword passed between you. Someone knew a river. Someone else supplied a kind of stitch. The custodian disputed a bird, then found that she had spelled it wrong.
The woman leaned back in her chair.
“I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”
Nobody asked how long.
He turned the newspaper so she could read the next clue.
She drew her cup closer before taking it.
Raw note from Dustin
The following is Dustin’s own note, reproduced verbatim at his request, separate from the fiction.
i fuckin love u