Ben took out his phone, copying the line of yawners leading back to the door; those powered-down bodies on a factory line waiting to have their batteries reinstalled. It was far too early to attempt anything as bold as eye contact, never mind conversation. Theirs was a silent, sombre solidarity. The man ahead of him – built like a fridge, with dandruff sprinkled on his shoulders like icing sugar on a cake – ordered three cappuccinos. Of course, it had to be cappuccinos. Any hope of making it to the shoe shop on time disappeared in another blast of steam.

Ben opened the email for the sake of deleting it. He had time to kill and a weary manager to disappoint. That was after all what his email account had become since finishing up in college – an unentertaining deletion app. And he played it every morning, Monday to Friday, usually around the time that he was expected to clock in to work.

‘Doctor Alec Sparling,’ he read. ‘Never heard of you, buddy.’

The subject line stated simply: Project Proposal for Mr French. This wasn’t like the usual junk mail. It was a letter, one addressed only to him – to the titular Mr French. And so, he read on.

I am currently funding a private project. You come highly recommended by Professor Joseph Cunningham.

It is my wish to meet you in person to discuss taking this collaboration further. The details regarding both the time and venue are attached below. Please notify me before the close of day if it is your wish to attend.

The details were scant at best – some of the broadest strokes that Ben had ever read – but projects paid money. He was probably one of fifty candidates for the role. There was always a never-ending stream of graduates and not enough jobs – like passengers on a sinking ship with too few lifeboats. But given his current situation he would happily go all in on fifty-to-one.

Ben had already served a year’s sentence in full-time retail and the whole dour cycle was starting to repeat itself. He could suffer through part-time; at least he had had his studies to prod his mind occasionally. But this was different. The majority who worked in the shop were kids, fresh out of school or first years in university, undeveloped in mind and manners. They all dressed the same and shared some mongrel dialect that Ben blamed the internet for – words that infected local colloquialisms like a parasite. These bastards were the carriers.

The job was hardly engaging enough to occupy thirty-five hours of Ben’s week. Even he zoned out whenever he described the benefits of their patented memory foam insoles, reciting his lines like an ageing stage actor locked in a role for too many seasons.