The process of getting out of bed, showering, inserting contact lenses, donning a suit, and excavating keys and wallet from a pile of empty chip bags and Pocky boxes are all clockwork. No need for a handbag, for there is nothing else to carry. No umbrella, there are plenty of spare ones at work for emergencies. Breakfast is an egg sandwich and coffee at the McDonald’s by the station. Lunch will be a Cup Noodle and a can of Boss Rainbow purchased from the nearby Family Mart. The three bentos for this weekend’s dinner can wait until after work. The train is packed, as always, like sardines in a tin can two sizes too small. All of the commuters’ heads are bent at the same odd angle and illuminated by smartphone screens. All but one.

Zaniel gets off the train at his usual stop and heads toward his office building. He finds himself surrounded by several shorter, stockier men who laugh and poke at him as if they are adolescents. He enters the lobby, gets into the cramped elevator, and pretends not to hear the voices berating him in Japanese:

“Well, what are you waiting for, Banana Boy?!”

“Press the button already, hafu!”

Other voices chime in. “Twenty-two! Twenty-two!” they jeer in English until Zaniel complies.

The ride up is speedy and the windows provide a near-panoramic view of the city as the elevator ascends. Zaniel pretends to enjoy the view, ignoring the jostles and jibes from his hostile co-workers. After several years of living in Japan he is accustomed to this manner of morning greetings, if he receives any morning greeting at all. When the doors slide open, Zaniel walks past the receptionist, who bows and greets the employees stepping off the elevator: “Ohayou gozaimasu, Matsubara-san. Ohayou gozaimasu, Maruyama-san. Ohay—” She stares at Zaniel briefly, then returns to her work.

Someone speeds past Zaniel to catch up with Matsubara and Maruyama and clips him hard with his shoulder. It hurts. “Doke, Banana-kun.” Out of the way, Banana Boy.

Zaniel says nothing. He slogs through a large office with dozens of small cubicles where everyone is busy. They are typing away or barking into phones, or snoring like buzz saws, or sipping tea with very loud, satisfied gasps. The room is abuzz with noise: businesslike propositions and instructions, electronic clicks and dings, hissing gossip, boiling water, and the ka-chak, ka-chak of staplers attaching endless amounts of paperwork.

“Attention, everyone,” says a voice on an invisible intercom. “Please gather in Room Three for a very important meeting. Now.”