Courtesy is a lady's armor. – Sophie TurnerMiyu doubted that it was normal business practice to hold job interviews in dimly lit coffee shops an hour before closing. Then again, blood donation was hardly a normal business, and the interview process for her desired position was about as far from normal as one could get. The advertisement had been posted on a bulletin board outside the plasma donation center:
"Type O negative blood donor urgently needed for multiple patients on a long-term basis. Competitive five-figure compensation package."
Of course it had to be a scam. Miyu had donated plasma a grand total of twice, and it was quickly apparent that she could earn more money doing almost anything else. She had also never heard of whole blood donation in the private sphere. Still, type O negative blood was the rarest type, and part of her wanted to believe that her blood was special enough to merit a five-figure compensation package. She took a picture of the advertisement – as a joke, she told herself, to show people for a laugh – and saved it on her phone.
A few days later, on the last day of April, Miyu was huddled in a corner of her room, hunched over the small floor table she used as a desk. The night was unseasonally cold, and no creative arrangement of blankets could drive the chill out of her legs and feet. The property description had referred to her room as a "cozy bohemian garret" in a "spacious, centrally located share house," but this was code for a poorly insulated attic room, in a share house where students were packed in like cattle in stalls – centrally located in a questionable part of town. No matter, Miyu had thought. It was the lowest rent she could find within walking (more like trekking) distance of campus. The room consisted almost entirely of oddly angled eaves and gables, such that there were few places that she could stand upright. Miyu told herself this was a plus, since she didn't need any real furniture.
Since it was the last day of the month, Miyu was looking over her budget. "Budget" was how she referred to an ever-growing barrage of loan payments and overdue tuition bills, counteracted by feeble attempts at payment from various part-time jobs and (in two instances) the plasma donation center. She had hoped to power through the last two semesters of university on sheer momentum and force of will. The bills could wait until she had a full-time job after graduation. But now, after an uncomfortable conversation at the financial aid office and a few veiled threats from her landlord, she saw it was impossible. The numbers didn't add up.
Miyu's phone beeped – an email alert – and she perked up with Pavlovian speed, hoping it was a message from the part-time job agency. But it was an email from her little brother, Ichiro, the golden child.
Hi Miyu,
I hope you're doing okay. I know you're bad at keeping in touch, but you really need to tell me you're alive once in a while. Are you getting ready for final exams? I've been studying nonstop. Mom is breathing down my neck even more without you here. I know you don't want to hear this, but you need to come home. Mom and Dad don't talk about you but this is making them crazy. They're talking about taking a trip to Tatsuyama, as if they just want to take some scenic tour, and I know it's because they're imagining you and Touma living there. You can't actually believe that they never want to see you again.
You can just blame Touma for everything. Say he brainwashed you. Classic evil boyfriend. You're good at dramatic stories, and it's not like they could hate him more than they already do. I don't know why you're being so stubborn. It's stupid to let him ruin your life like this. And it's selfish. You always say you need more time, and I'm stuck knowing what's really going on, hoping Mom and Dad don't suddenly ask me about it. I don't know how long I can keep this dumb promise. Write back to me. Ichiro
Miyu reread the email three times before setting her phone down, a dull weight growing in her stomach. Ichiro would never understand, since he'd grown up in the warm light of their parents' favor rather than the fog of their indifference. He didn't need to prove his worth. Miyu was not going to come home broke and defeated, spinning a sorry tale about how Touma had backed out of their elopement, listening to her parents smugly reaffirm how right they had been. Miyu was going to come home victorious, a college graduate with a lucrative job, on the arm of a boyfriend her parents wouldn't dare find fault with. Her armor would be perfect, without a chink to be found.
She needed to earn enough to stay in university the next two semesters. She feared that taking time off to work would be the start of a downward spiral, with all hope of graduation shrinking away out of sight. She needed another part-time gig. Miyu reached for her phone to peruse the job boards, but found herself looking at the photo of the blood donation advertisement instead. It seemed to be beckoning her. She let out a resigned sigh.
"Nigerian prince, here I come," Miyu said aloud. She had a habit of talking aloud to herself when she did something impulsive, as if casting the situation in a humorous light for an imaginary audience would justify her idiocy. She quickly composed an email inquiring as to the details of the opportunity, expressing interest, thanking the recipient (doubtless a Nigerian prince) for his time, etc. Then she hit "send."
The reply came sooner than expected – within an hour – and she was surprised by the Nigerian prince's personalized response and impressive command of the Japanese language. Apparently a recession forced even scammers to up their game. He requested a current (this word was bolded) copy of her resume, with a cover letter describing her reasons for applying for the position. This seemed premature considering that she still knew next to nothing about the job. Still, it didn't feel sinister, like a request for a bank account number or home address or medical records. Miyu double-checked that her resume really was current, then typed up an over-eager cover letter full of vague catchphrases like "detail-oriented," "people person," and "strong worth ethic." She sent it and waited.
This was the start of a bizarre exchange that took place over the course of a few weeks, evolving from correspondence to tangible assignments. She was required to get a full medical examination (prepaid), a physical fitness test (prepaid), and a consultation at a traditional medicine clinic (also prepaid). She needed to send in the results of three different personality tests and write two original essays – one on the changing landscape of medical ethics, and one on the stabilizing role of hierarchy in human society. This was heartening, since Miyu was good at writing essays.
At the same time, the Nigerian prince (a real stickler for correct grammar, as it turned out) gave Miyu a rough description of what the job would entail: on-call blood donation to no fewer than six clients at a treatment facility in another prefecture. These clients suffered from a rare medical condition that was never described in detail. The timeframe was from March to September, which meant Miyu would need to take that semester off school. A semester's delay was more than worth it when this job could pay for the entirety of her college education, but the enormity of a six-month gig made her nervous. She had never signed a contract for such a long time period before, and it felt like a staggering commitment. She comforted herself with the thought that perhaps at the interview, she could negotiate for a shorter trial period to start with.
This thought quickly dissipated once the interview was underway, as it soon became obvious that her clients' "patient advocate" was not the negotiating type. Mr. Reiji Sakamaki had been waiting for her at a small table in the corner of the gloomy coffee shop, and no sooner did she arrive than he scolded her for being late. (Late by not one but two minutes.) Her unforgivable lack of punctuality triggered an entire lecture on the value of other people's time and a number of references to the six months indicated in the contract, as if he feared she would show up to the job a month late. Miyu tried to look attentive without being too self-incriminating, but she wasn't wholly listening to his tirade. She was too intrigued by his appearance.
His pale skin excluded him from the ranks of Nigerian princes, but he could easily pass as a prince of some other kind. He bore himself like an aristocrat despite the shabby surroundings. Or perhaps the surroundings enhanced his aura of nobility? He seemed a bit young to be a patient advocate, more like a college student really, if princes went to college. His glasses highlighted the scholarly vibe. Oddly, he wore a white glove on one hand. Did he suffer from a deathly fear of the germs lurking on elevator buttons…?
Miyu stared a bit too long before realizing that not only had he stopped talking, but he had asked her a question, and she had no idea what it was. She smiled apologetically. "Pardon?"
"What would you like to drink?"
"Oh." She felt stupid and glanced up at the wall-mounted menu, shrouded in shadows above the counter. She needed to recover her gracious interview façade. "Well, I suppose I'll have some…" Why was the menu written in such tiny script? She squinted. "Some green tea?"
"The tea here is of atrocious quality. Would you prefer juice or milk?"
Just let me drink my atrocious tea, Miyu thought. She had frequented this place before her finances took a nosedive, and she liked their tea just fine, thank you very much. But she had already managed to fall out of Mr. Sakamaki's good graces by arriving late, and she might as well humor him. She craned her neck to see the juice selection. "Orange juice?"
"Orange juice has a high glycemic index and would be overly stimulating at this late hour. Lemon juice would be more appropriate."
"Oh, I see." Were patient advocates always this health-conscious? And pushy?
"You may remain seated. I will place our orders." Mr. Sakamaki began to rise.
Miyu scrambled to her feet as well, eager to make up for her tardiness however she could. "Oh, no. Please allow me…" Her voice faded away as Mr. Sakamaki threw her a disapproving glare.
"It would be remiss of me to allow a lady to pay her own way. And it is terribly rude to refuse a potential employer's generosity." Looking miffed, he went to the counter and ordered two glasses of – Miyu cringed – unsweetened lemon juice. She expected him to come back and sit down, but he lingered at the counter and she realized he was closely watching the barista, probably to ensure that no sugar found its way into their lemon juice.
At least this gave her a brief respite. Miyu took the opportunity to smooth her skirt, double-check that her phone was set to vibrate, and pull her chair a bit closer to the table. Her hands kept sweating no matter how many times she tried to subtly wipe them on her skirt, and the cheap polyester fabric seemed to only spread the sweat around rather than absorbing it. She needed to refocus and not allow Mr. Sakamaki's insufferable attitude to throw her off. This was like any other interview, she told herself. She just needed to act earnest and agreeable and a little bit impressed, and keep responding as if Mr. Sakamaki was the voice of reason rather than the voice of…
"Your lemon juice." He had returned sooner than expected with two ominously tall glasses. They were full to the brim without a single ice cube. Miyu thanked him, took a sip, and felt her mouth pucker despite her best efforts. A hint of smile appeared on Mr. Sakamaki's face. "Delicious, isn't it? Do you like it?"
"Yes, it's very refreshing." Miyu took a bigger gulp to prove it and nearly spat it out, but managed to swallow. This interview had already started out badly, and it was only getting worse. But he was pulling out a manila folder now and opening it to reveal a list of questions. Finally! She at least had confidence in her question-answering skills.
Mr. Sakamaki started with some basic questions related to her education and previous work experience, gradually sliding into more personal territory as he brought up the results of her personality tests. How agreeable was she? Did she consider herself a team player? What was an instance where she obeyed an authority figure despite misgivings? (Miyu could think of nothing, and ended up heavily embellishing an incident at a previous job.) Did she exercise discretion in all her dealings? How did she demonstrate flexibility in her everyday life?
Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty, and it was starting to feel more like an interrogation than an interview. Miyu answered questions between sips of lemon juice, trying to keep up with Mr. Sakamaki's relentless pace of drinking (did he have taste buds of steel?). She had heard stories of female office workers who secretly dumped their drinks into potted plants at office events, to give the appearance of holding their liquor and "keeping up with the boys." She stared longingly at the half-dead ficus tree next to their table and wished that Mr. Sakamaki would glance away for even a moment.
"Do you take an interest in horticulture, or have I managed to bore you?"
Miyu snapped to attention. "I'm sorry. The plant just caught my eye, and…"
"Ficus benjamina," Mr. Sakamaki said, reaching out to slide a leaf between his gloved fingers. "Clearly neglected. A most unfortunate specimen. What is your amateur assessment? Does it have any hope of survival?"
He seemed to be mocking her. "I suppose it does look a little hopeless," she said, feeling hopeless herself.
"Hopeless?" Mr. Sakamaki raised an eyebrow. "That seems like a rather hasty judgment. Your cover letter stated that you had a positive outlook and enjoyed taking on new challenges. Isn't it too soon to condemn this" – he glanced at the plant again – "admittedly poor excuse for a ficus?"
"I think it's just as important to know when to give up as when to press on," Miyu replied, surprised by her own boldness (would he think her witty?) and hoping this would steer the conversation back into some semblance of an interview.
"Is changing direction the same as giving up?"
It felt like a trick question. "Only if you end up going in a direction you don't want to go, I suppose." She didn't see how a ficus tree could change direction anyway.
Surprisingly, Mr. Sakamaki seemed satisfied with her answer. He nodded and leaned back in his chair, seeming to ponder for a moment before asking, "Do you have a boyfriend?"
"What?" It came out sounding ruder than she intended. She tried again. "Excuse me?"
He looked at her expectantly.
"No, I don't," Miyu conceded, "but why is that relevant?"
"It is relevant with regard to the transfer of communicable diseases, which could be devastating for the clients who would receive your blood." Mr. Sakamaki leaned forward again and held out his gloved right hand, motioning to the tabletop. "Your hands, please."
Obeying without thinking, Miyu put her hands on the table before suddenly wondering why, and she tensed when he picked the left one up. Gently, as if handling delicate porcelain, he lifted the ring finger and inspected it closely, holding it mere inches from his face. Miyu was too flustered to move. He did the same with her right hand, paying particular attention to the space between her knuckle and first joint. After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he put it down.
"What was that for?" Miyu asked, injecting her voice with as much nonchalance as she could manage. As if hand inspections were par for the course in job interviews.
"Most couple rings would leave an indentation, and perhaps a lightened mark," he said, and explained no further. Miyu felt indignant at the implication that she might have been lying – and surprised that he would take lack of a ring indentation as concrete proof of singledom. (Touma had never given her a ring.) But before she could think of how to respond, Mr. Sakamaki was pulling several manila folders out of his briefcase without so much as a glance at her. She quickly withdrew her hands to her lap, where they twisted against each other, clammy and tense. She felt irrational relief that he had been wearing a glove, so he wouldn't know how much her hands were sweating.
"Since we're on the topic of honesty, let's continue in this vein," he said, placing the folders on the table and looking at Miyu over tented fingers. It was strange to see a gloved and gloveless hand juxtaposed like that. It made Miyu think of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and she wondered briefly which hand would belong to which. She noticed there was no ring on his bare left hand.
Mr. Sakamaki leaned forward slightly. "Are you an honest person?"
Miyu was taken aback. She couldn't say yes. She wasn't perfectly honest in every way, and she got the feeling that he would take a "yes" as proof of dishonesty somehow. But how could she say no? Mr. Sakamaki was smiling at her. He only ever seemed to smile when she was in an awkward position.
"I try to be honest," Miyu said finally.
"Trying implies failure. When have you failed to be honest?"
This was so much worse than being asked about mistakes at a previous job, or about her weaknesses as a person. Miyu clenched her fingers in her lap. "It's hard for me to be honest about what I think sometimes. I don't want to offend other people or hurt their feelings." That was a nice positive spin. At least she sounded kind-hearted.
"So you tell people what they want to hear? You flatter them? You play along with their delusions and feed into their errors of judgment?"
He made it sound terrible. "It's not… that extreme," Miyu amended. "I just don't want to cause unnecessary conflict. Sometimes it's better not to say what I really think."
"Remaining silent is not dishonest. Nobody would argue that. You should answer the questions that I asked, not divert the topic to make yourself appear innocent." Mr. Sakamaki's eyes glinted dangerously behind his glasses. "Please provide a concrete example of your dishonesty."
Was he serious? Who would actually ask this in an interview? Miyu could think of all too many instances of dishonesty – mostly her creative excuses for lateness – but she was too ashamed to say any of them out loud. Mr. Sakamaki had just made white lies seem like a serious crime, and it seemed like she would be convicted no matter what she said.
"It seems this question is too difficult for you." Mr. Sakamaki assumed an expression of mild concern. "Perhaps you suffer from a poor memory, so allow me to be more specific. Have you been dishonest with me?"
Miyu's eyes widened. "No! I don't make things up when I answer interview questions." (She suddenly remembered the embellishing, but really, that hardly counted.) "And all my documents are real. I'm not a scammer or anything-"
"Do you like lemon juice?"
She was cornered. "It's not my favorite."
"Do you like it or not?"
"It's not that I dislike it, it's-"
He reached across the table and snapped his fingers, right in her face. Miyu jumped so hard that her chair nearly tipped back. "Do you like it? A yes or no will suffice."
She was defeated. "No. I don't like it."
Mr. Sakamaki sat back. "Was it so hard to admit that? Why did you try to make me believe that you liked it when you could not even conceal your distaste? Do you realize that such behavior is an insult to the intelligence of others?"
Miyu was still recovering from the shock of him snapping his fingers in her face. It felt too surreal to have really happened – like the way he had inspected her hands for rings. The laws of personal space dictated an invisible line across the center of the table that one should not cross, and he had crossed it twice now.
"At its core, dishonesty is manipulative," Mr. Sakamaki continued. "It is an attempt to induce certain behavior in others, when you know that honesty would elicit a different reaction. Did you think I would view you more favorably if you liked the lemon juice?"
Miyu was too mortified to look up at him – she stared fixedly at the line where his crisp white shirtfront disappeared into his dark vest – but she could feel his condescension chipping away at her meek shell to reveal the hard, bright, defiant streak inside. He had somehow seen through her (or maybe only suspected?) and now he was goading her to reveal the self she was carefully hiding. Miyu didn't want to be seen. She wanted to get through the interview with a stoic smile and go home and wallow in her assured failure. And she was going to make a graceful finish regardless of Mr. Sakamaki's mind games. She sat up a little straighter.
"I'm sorry for misleading you about the lemon juice," she said, as placidly as possible. "I didn't want to seem ungrateful for your recommendation." Ugh, she was sounding like him now.
Mr. Sakamaki was unmoved. "One can express gratitude without resorting to lying. I don't require an explanation. A simple apology will suffice."
"I'm sorry," Miyu said again, unable to fully conceal the resentment in her voice. She didn't really want to conceal it anyway. It seemed she had little to lose at this point.
"At least you're capable of apologizing, even if it's not sincere," Mr. Sakamaki said. His tone was far too blasé considering what he was saying, and then suddenly he was all business again. "Doubtless you have some questions for me as well."
The way he switched modes between merciless accuser and accommodating potential employer was giving Miyu a case of mental whiplash.
"Then again, perhaps you have no questions about the position at all."
"I do!" she said. "I mean, about the frequency. I'm supposed to be donating blood for six clients, but I thought you could only donate blood once every two months or something-"
He cut her off. "The human body holds approximately ten pints of blood. Each typical donation at, say, the Red Cross averages one pint, or 10% of the total. A human can lose up to 15% of capacity with no serious issues. 30% will cause the skin to grow pale. 40% will induce shock, and beyond that… death."
Miyu stiffened. Mr. Sakamaki seemed to sense her discomfort and took a leisurely sip of lemon juice before continuing.
"None of your clients will require a full pint at a time. These are… incremental donations, if you will. A healthy person can provide multiple such micro-donations without the currently recommended eight-week waiting period."
Miyu wanted to ask him about the volume and waiting period of these so-called micro-donations, but he was already pulling a sheaf of papers out of the folder and placing it before her.
"An innovative addition to our micro-donation program is the incorporation of traditional medicine techniques to ensure maximum blood restoration and rapid physical rejuvenation. With a combined regimen of acupuncture, moxibustion, and individually prescribed herbs and dietary guidelines, we can guarantee positive results for both donors and recipients."
He seemed to be making a sales pitch to a boardroom rather than to a sleep-deprived university student. Miyu started to leaf through the documents – they were full of detailed acupuncture meridian diagrams and huge nutrition charts printed in tiny fonts – but she was interrupted by Mr. Sakamaki flipping open another folder.
"I am pleased to inform you that you have demonstrated adequate viability as a candidate for the position. This is the contract. Please read it over and sign where indicated." He paused, and as if making an enormous concession, added, "You may ask questions if any sections are unclear to you."
Miyu gaped at him. "You're offering me the position?"
"Is there a reason you're so surprised? Some fatal flaw I am as yet unaware of?"
"No," she said, a bit too emphatically. "I just assumed that if I passed the interview, you would call me in a few days… or something…"
Mr. Sakamaki's expression fluctuated between amusement and suspicion, and to escape eye contact, Miyu looked down and began reading the contract. She soon found herself drowning in legal terminology. Were all contracts this obtuse? (She had signed many contracts but never felt such a powerful urge to read one so closely.) She wanted to ask a question about nearly every other sentence, but under the weight of his oppressive gaze, she decided to save all questions for the end and prioritize them. She wished he would stop looking at her while she was reading. Did he not realize the pressure it put on her? Or was he doing it on purpose?
She turned to the next page of the contract. It was equally inscrutable. Mr. Sakamaki let out an impatient sigh. She skipped a particularly dense paragraph and moved on to the next page. She felt palpable relief when she finally reached the signature page.
"When was the last time you received an optical exam?" Mr. Sakamaki asked abruptly.
Miyu blinked. "A few years ago…? My eyesight has always been 20/20, so…"
"You are clearly due for another one. There is no other explanation for such a deplorably slow pace of reading. Unless…" He gave her an unnecessarily piercing look. "Japanese is your second language?"
"No!" He knew her educational history. Was he trying to be insulting? "It's just that the legal terminology…"
"Are there words here that you are unfamiliar with? Point them out and I will provide definitions."
Miyu helplessly scanned one page of the contract after another. She did know all the words. But the way they were strung together rendered them as unintelligible as another language entirely. She looked up cautiously.
Mr. Sakamaki appeared bored. "Do you have a specific question?"
"Can I have someone else look over the contract for me?"
"Our attorney would be happy to do so for a set fee."
Miyu guessed it would be obscenely expensive. "I mean someone else…"
"This contract deals with sensitive private medical information, which page three clearly states may not be disclosed to a third party for any reason. If you wish to consult our attorney, I can provide you with his contact information."
Miyu quickly scanned page three again. "Are any parts of the contract negotiable?"
"Such as?"
"It says that I have to reside on the premises of the treatment facility. Could I get a housing stipend instead?" If she found cheap accommodations like her attic room, she could dedicate a large portion of the stipend to other purposes.
"Residence is non-negotiable. Our high monitoring standards and the intensive traditional medicine regimen require your presence at the treatment facility on a daily basis. The immediate vicinity has no suitable housing options, and a commute of any length would require the employment of a driver. Such an expense, combined with a housing stipend, would make for a financially untenable arrangement."
Does he always talk like this, Miyu wondered, or did he memorize canned responses in preparation for the interview? She couldn't imagine having to deal with someone like him on a daily basis. She imagined a bevy of longsuffering coworkers who had to put up with the bespectacled prince of lemon juice and manila folders. He probably reorganized his filing cabinet for fun.
"I will take your lack of response as an acceptance of the terms, and as an indication that you have no further questions." Mr. Sakamaki flipped the pages of the contract over to expose the signature page once more. Seeing Miyu hesitate, he added, "As there are numerous applicants waiting to be interviewed, I cannot afford to waste time on indecision. The preliminary stages of the interview process led me to believe you were a fitting candidate. However, I admit that this may not be the case. Perhaps the next interview will prove more fruitful." He made as if to get up from his chair.
Miyu had a policy of always sleeping on an important decision – even more so when she had a twinge of doubt. And if she had a moment to think, she was sure she'd have more questions to ask. But if it really was now or never… Ignoring the unsettled feeling in her stomach, she picked up the pen and quickly signed the contract in all the highlighted sections, printing her name neatly next to each signature.
"I see that penmanship is not your strong suit," Mr. Sakamaki said, in a tone that suggested his judgment was irreversible. "Perhaps a correspondence course in calligraphy would prove beneficial."
Miyu wasn't sure how to react to such pointless criticism. She tried to laugh it off. "Well, no one's perfect. We're all only human…"
"Speak for yourself. And if you're aware of your shortcomings, it should be all the more reason to strive harder for perfection rather than make generalized excuses. Those working in the medical field should cultivate a peerless sense of personal responsibility."
His tone had grown even colder, as if securing her signature had freed him from the shackles of basic courtesy. Miyu was startled by how aggravated he sounded. But she forced herself to ignore it and pointedly changed the subject. "So the start date is Saturday, May 23, right? Next week?"
"As stated in the contract." Mr. Sakamaki's voice was smooth and professional again, but annoyance lurked beneath it. "You will be picked up at your current residence at three o' clock in the afternoon, and I suggest you make a greater effort to be punctual than you did today. Upon arrival at the treatment facility at five o' clock, there will be a guided tour of the facility and grounds, orientation session, and welcome dinner." He pulled out yet another folder and thrust it at her. "The enclosed guidelines indicate the recommended items to include in your luggage and personal effects. Take careful note of the list of contraband items as well. The possession of contraband will result in disciplinary measures."
He was starting to sound like a cross between an overzealous secretary and a prison warden. It seemed like a better fit for him to work in airport security than patient advocacy. Then again, if he handled airport security, perhaps the planes would never leave the ground. Miyu had a sudden mental image of him insisting on enhanced security checks for every single passenger.
"I will expect you to have read and absorbed all the guidelines prior to your arrival. As I stated earlier, adherence to facility rules will be tantamount in maintaining a positive working environment." Mr. Sakamaki stood up surprisingly swiftly and swept several of the folders back into his briefcase. "Thank you for your unquestioning cooperation."
He extended his gloved right hand to her. Did he want to shake hands? Miyu was surprised by such a liberal gesture, but perhaps he dealt with Americans frequently. She stood up and gamely reached out to clasp his hand. But he took hers first and gripped her fingers firmly, turning her palm to face downward, and then he bowed his head slightly as he brought her hand up to his lips. She felt the lightest of kisses brush her knuckles.
He was looking at her as he did it, and caught unawares she looked back at him, and she saw him seeing her. There was a strange, unsettling moment of truth in which she felt they understood each other. They understood they were playing a game, each in their own way, and the rules dictated that they never admit it. He knew that she knew that he knew, and so on.
Miyu allowed herself to hold his gaze longer than courtesy allowed. There was a transgressive thrill in not looking away, in accepting his unspoken challenge. He looked both pleased and unsurprised, as though he'd expected this somehow. Miyu noticed the smallest of smiles as he finally lowered her hand and let go.
"Until next time," he said, with a nominal bow, and departed.
In the following days, Miyu wondered what he meant. Would she see him on May 23, or did he mean later on? Perhaps he stopped by the facility regularly? And the words before that – "thank you for your unquestioning cooperation" – played over and over in her mind. The "unquestioning" part disturbed her. Was it Mr. Sakamaki's way of implying that she had asked too many questions? She had thought that interviewers liked to be asked questions, since it showed a spirit of initiative. Or did he suspect that she would be less than cooperative in the future? Either way, it felt oddly threatening. Mr. Sakamaki's personality was threatening enough, and she wished he could have ended their interaction like a normal person instead of making her do mental gymnastics with his choice of words. (The kiss on her hand was too outrageous to fully process, and she dismissed it as a quirk even while guiltily trying to recall every detail.)
But there wasn't much time to ponder what Mr. Sakamaki had said or did. In the next few days, Miyu needed to inform her landlord of her imminent departure (he took it as a betrayal), notify the university that she was taking a semester off (they were indifferent), give notice at her various part-time jobs (they were understanding), and bid temporary farewell to her classmates (they acted like she was going off on a great adventure). She hoped to visit her old neighborhood occasionally on weekends, but the treatment facility was far enough away that she doubted she would see many of her friends again before the following semester.
Online maps indicated that the facility was actually quite isolated. Miyu comforted herself with the fact that there was a church within walking distance, so there must be houses scattered in the area, too, in order for the church to have congregants. She imagined snug little cottages nestled in a bucolic countryside. Perhaps she would make some quaint provincial friends. Perhaps she would meet some tanned, down-to-earth country boy with great promise and ambition (different from Touma and superior in every way) and start a forbidden romance… not that Mr. Sakamaki had expressly forbidden it, but she was sure he wouldn't approve. Oh well. Apparently he equated relationships with rings, and it was easy enough to steer clear of rings.
The days passed in a blur of goodbyes, and on May 23, thoughts of the five-figure compensation package buzzed in Miyu's head as she packed her belongings and did a final check of her room. Her bohemian garret was now the cleanest it had been since she'd moved in. The afternoon sunlight from the warped windows stretched in golden squares and trapezoids across the empty floor. The room looked sad and foreign now, like a stranger's room. She had never been fond of the place, but now it stood as a witness to her first stint of independence, those lonely months after she broke free of her parents and Touma broke free of her. Miyu felt a strange pang when she closed the door for the last time and returned the key.
Before she knew it, a black car was pulling into the driveway of the share house. It was precisely three o' clock in the afternoon. Her new job was about to begin.