As I drown in the hum of the elevator, I concentrate on what to have for dinner. I need to erase all memory of Manager’s creepy eyes, Lieko’s raptor grin, and this impending trial lesson with a demonic child. As for my re-contracting form, I still have time. I don’t know what Manager was getting in my face about. It isn’t due until the end of October. Another thing I need to push down into the recesses of my brain, behind this looming headache. I need to eat. What do I have in my fridge? Well, no — Zozo’s fridge. In Zozo’s apartment. It’s not mine. It’s a place to sleep and keep my stuff. If I’m not re-contracting, I have to get used to letting these things go. Hmm … maybe I’ll grab the first thing I see on the way home. I don’t feel like cooking, but I can’t remember the last time I was this hungry. McDonald’s it is.

“An-punch! An-kick! Sore ike!”

I jump out of my skin and scream. Somehow, the world’s oldest Anpanman toy got left behind in the elevator. Its legs kick back and forth in the guise of flying, but the toy stays in the corner of the tiny floor. How had no one noticed it was here? Strange that no one thought to return it. Well, I have no plans to touch it.

“An-punch! An-kick! Sore ike!”

I shudder. I decide to leave it in the elevator and let it ride back up. The doors slide open and I book it out of there. I can still hear the toy, its gears grinding with the dying battery’s efforts to turn out one last recorded phrase.

“An-punch! An-kick! Mata ne!”

Ew. Creepy. I can’t wait for someone to throw that thing out.

Outside, I unlock my bike and head to McDonald’s. The bank has changed its flower garden so it’s full of marigolds in the shape of a jack-o’-lantern. When I ride under the highway bridge there’s a sudden gust of cold wind, carrying that chilly Halloween feeling that gives me goosebumps, even under my suit jacket. I can also detect the telltale fragrance of fries and teriyaki burgers in the air even before I go inside and place my order. Patience, stomach. We’re almost there.

“Potato fry, chicken nugget okyaku-sama!” the young teller sings to me as I dig out my vibrating phone and flip it open. I figure it’s another text from my mother, firing messages at me to call home. Instead, I read: Dress professionally this week.

The next one reads: You have a very important trial lesson tomorrow night.

And the third: Wear a skirt from now on.