He came to Studio 4B on Thursday.
Not early.
Not late.
Exactly at six, which was irritatingly him and also fair, because the studio schedule said six.
I saw him from the mirror before I turned.
No glasses.
No tablet.
No coat expensive enough to make the old radiator feel ashamed.
Just Silas in a dark sweater, standing near the studio door with one hand around a paper cup and the other empty at his side.
"Tea?" I asked.
"For you."
"You guessed?"
"I asked the woman downstairs what you buy after rehearsal."
"That is very close to intelligence gathering."
"It is also called conversation."
I took the cup because I wanted it.
Ginger.
Unsweetened.
Still dangerous.
"Did you ask her anything else?"
"Whether the stairs are always this bad."
"And?"
"She said the building has cha
