## Chapter 296 — Two Short Rounds At eight forty on Sunday morning, the scale had already been checked twice. A staff member placed a certified weight on its centre, waited for the display to settle and entered the number on a clipboard. Behind him, the municipal sports hall was still becoming an event. Volunteers carried sealed equipment cases along the edge of the basketball court. A technician taped one cable flat where it crossed the walkway. The competition enclosure stood beneath the high lights at the far end: a square of pale mat surrounded by black padded fencing, modest enough that the empty seats behind it remained visible through the mesh. Isha sat beside Shibata on a folding chair with her medical sheet across her knees. Her hair had been braided tightly and doubled at the nape of her neck. The event shirt left the three travelling lines clear on her upper arm. They had healed into the skin so completely that the doctor touched them only after asking whether the area still reacted to pressure or sweat. Isha said the skin felt like the surrounding arm. The rest of the examination repeated Saturday’s review in shorter form. Eyes, neck, jaw, balance, recent symptoms and the old accident record. The doctor asked whether she had developed any pain or illness overnight. Isha answered no. He listened to her chest, signed the event line and sent her towards the scale. Morita waited several metres away in dark warm-up clothes, speaking quietly with her coach. Her right foot still rested slightly forward. When the organiser called her name, she removed her shoes, stepped onto the platform and held still until the number appeared. It sat within a few hundred grams of Saturday’s measurement. Isha followed. The two readings remained close enough that the organiser made no change to the pairing sheet. He reminded both coaches that food and water were expected before the bout and checked the final boxes himself. The procedure contained no ceremony. A place held open for two women became usable through signatures, stable weight and two bodies that had arrived healthy that morning. Isha put her shoes back on and looked across the hall. Thomas and Kanno had entered through the spectator doors. Thomas wore a pale summer shirt and carried no training bag. Kanno had tied her hair away from her face and brought the black work bag despite insisting the previous afternoon that Sunday contained nothing professional. An event programme protruded from its outer pocket. They found seats three rows above floor level, close enough to see the enclosure and far enough that neither could become part of the corner by standing in the wrong place. Thomas raised one hand when Isha looked towards him. Kanno raised the programme. Isha answered with her right hand before Shibata directed her towards the changing area. “Now they know you arrived,” he said. “Leave them there.” “I intended to.” Shibata glanced towards the stands. Thomas had already sat. Kanno remained standing long enough to move her bag away from the aisle, then took the seat beside him. “Good,” he said. “They are spectators. Leave them that job.” Arai met Isha near the changing-room entrance with wraps, tape and a bottle of water. She had agreed to assist Shibata because she knew Isha’s training habits and had already endured one beginner event from inside it. Her own bout loss gave her no official authority. It gave her familiarity with the minutes in which gloves, rules and waiting made a familiar body behave strangely. Arai asked what she had eaten. Isha listed rice, egg, soup and fruit. “Good. You can regret the fruit later if Morita keeps landing to the body.” Arai handed her the water. “Small mouthfuls.” Isha drank and followed her through the door. --- The public card contained six bouts. Thomas read every line before the first one began. Names, gyms, category and bout order occupied a single folded sheet. No photographs had been printed. Isha and Morita were listed fourth, after two lighter novice pairings and one grappling exhibition involving teenagers whose rules occupied a separate box at the bottom. Kanno leaned close enough to read the same programme. “They used three different dash lengths.” Thomas checked the English category line and found that its capitalisation also changed halfway down. Kanno allowed that the event might still be safe. “I had not connected typography with medical provision,” he said. “You usually connect formatting with moral decline.” The first competitors entered before Thomas could defend the principle. The room had filled without becoming crowded. Families, gym members and friends occupied perhaps half the folding bleachers. Coaches moved around the court in matching shirts. A small camera on a fixed tripod recorded the enclosure for organiser footage; a sign beside it prohibited spectator filming and named the limited uses already accepted by participants. Kanno placed her phone inside the zipped section of her bag. “You were not planning to record,” Thomas said. “No. I was planning to avoid holding a device while someone hits Isha.” She folded the programme once along an existing line. “I do not know what my hands will decide to do instead.” The first bout answered part of the question. Kanno held the paper at both ends and bent it slightly whenever one competitor struck cleanly. Thomas noticed only because his own right heel had begun moving against the floor in time with the referee’s commands. The enclosure changed the sound of contact. Gloves striking pads in a gym produced clean, expected reports. Here, the fence, raised court and audience gave each impact a small public echo. Corners called brief instructions. The referee’s voice cut through them when a position stopped moving or a hand reached the fence. Thomas knew the rules in outline. He had read the packet with Isha and listened while she explained the parts that mattered to her. Knowing made the first bouts easier to follow and did little to make the fourth feel acceptable. After the second bout, Kanno left for drinks. She returned with two bottles of tea and a small packet of salted rice crackers. Thomas accepted both without claiming that his stomach had no interest. Kanno sat and opened her tea. “You have checked the entrance four times.” “Isha is behind that wall. She could also enter through the other side.” Thomas looked towards the second opening and found only staff moving equipment. “Then checking this one was poorly designed.” He stopped looking towards either door. --- The event gloves made Isha’s hands broader and less articulate. She closed both fists while Arai checked the tape at her wrists. The padding reduced the small adjustments available to her fingers and turned every grip into a decision made with more surface than she expected. Shin protection tightened around her lower legs. Her mouthguard changed the shape of her breathing even while she stood still. Shibata watched her cross the warm-up mat with short steps. “Do not try to recover your bare hands inside the gloves. Use the hands you have.” Isha rolled one shoulder and let the instruction settle physically. In training she had worn the same approved type, but the inspection marks and waiting officials changed their weight. Today every object had another person’s agreement attached to it. Morita warmed up behind a portable screen at the other end of the hall. Isha could hear pads there: a right jab, the heavier left behind it, then two steps and the duller contact of a body kick. The rhythm stopped before becoming a performance. Arai held the pads for three final combinations. Isha’s first jab landed too hard because the waiting had narrowed her judgement. The second reached the intended force. On the third, she stepped outside the imagined lead foot and finished at the angle Shibata had assigned. “Keep that,” Arai said. “Her right hand measures. The left arrives after you agree to the measure.” Shibata called Isha closer. His folded ear looked more pronounced beneath the hall lights. “The first minute is information. Information is not permission to give away the round. She has competed before. She will begin before the room feels ready.” Isha looked towards the screen. “You know how to fight,” he continued. “You do not know how this bout will be judged until you feel it. Keep the actions legal, hear the referee and stop when he stops you. Everything else belongs to the woman in front of you.” The announcer called Morita first. Applause rose from one section of the bleachers. Morita entered in red-marked equipment, touched the outer post with one glove and stepped through the opening. Her coach followed as far as the corner, checked her mouthguard and withdrew. She moved once along the fence before standing beneath the red marker. Isha’s name followed. The applause changed location and included one clear clap from Kanno that arrived half a beat after the others. Thomas stood when Isha entered, then seemed to recognise that standing improved nothing and sat again. Isha looked at him only once. His face showed concentration stripped of every useful task. Kanno held the folded programme against one knee. The referee called both fighters to the centre. He checked the gloves, mouthguards and final understanding of the novice restrictions. Isha and Morita touched gloves. “Good match,” Morita said around the mouthguard. “And to you.” They returned to their marks. The enclosure door closed. --- Morita began before the room felt ready. Her right glove moved in front of her face and touched Isha’s guard with a jab that carried little force and complete intention. The left followed towards the body. Isha turned enough that the kick struck the outside of her ribs rather than the centre, but the impact travelled through the protection and made the air leave differently. Arai had predicted the rhythm. Prediction did not move Isha’s feet for her. Morita reset in southpaw, right foot forward and head slightly off the centre line. Isha gave ground while watching the lead shoulder. A second jab landed on her forehead. Isha returned a straight right that reached the guard after Morita had already moved. The first thirty seconds belonged to Morita’s familiarity with beginning. Isha saw openings. The right jab left a line outside Morita’s lead foot. The body kick raised the left hip before the leg travelled. Each answer arrived beside the novice rules, the referee’s position and the remembered need to stop before old violence continued past a safe ending. By the time the possibilities separated, Morita had taken another step. The next jab became entry rather than strike. Morita lowered her level behind it, placed her forehead beneath Isha’s jaw and drove her towards the fence. The black padding met Isha’s back. Morita joined her hands low and made Isha carry her. The pressure was exactly as described and less simple in person. Morita’s head prevented Isha from turning comfortably towards the underhook. Her right foot remained outside Isha’s stance, narrowing one escape while her left knee threatened the thigh and body. She did not squeeze everywhere. She placed weight where Isha needed space next. Isha framed, fought for the inside line and turned one shoulder from the fence. Morita changed grips, followed and put her back against the padding again. “Head position,” Shibata called. Isha knew. Morita was already using it. A short knee struck Isha’s body. A glove touched the side of her head when she adjusted too high. Neither blow carried the force of an unrestricted fight. Both counted inside this one. Isha found an underhook and stepped across for a turn. Morita widened her base, caught the movement and used the failed angle to bring Isha’s hips square. Her foot hooked behind Isha’s ankle. Isha withdrew it before the reap completed, but the correction left her standing taller. Morita changed levels again. The takedown arrived through a knee tap and the weight already fixed against Isha’s upper body. Isha kept one hand from touching the fence, turned as she fell and reached the mat on her hip rather than her back. Morita followed into half guard with her chest low and one arm controlling the far side. The crowd became sound beyond the mesh. The mat beneath Isha’s shoulder was firm, warm and clean. Morita’s weight carried no uncertainty about why it was there. Isha framed across the collarbone and began bringing her lower knee inside. Morita flattened her before the frame became structure. A short legal punch landed near Isha’s ribs. Another touched the side of her head through the guard. She could have moved Morita farther with force. The problem was applying the right force through gloves, fence and the limited positions the sport recognised as safe. Isha turned onto one hip, recovered the knee and reached the wall with her foot. Morita followed, keeping pressure across the shoulders. The ten-second signal sounded while Isha was building towards standing. She reached one knee. Morita pulled her away from the fence and returned her to the mat before the horn. The referee separated them. Isha stood at once. Morita’s chest rose harder than before, though her stance remained ordered. They looked at one another while crossing to their corners. The first round belonged to Morita. Isha did not need the judges to tell her. --- Thomas had risen during the takedown. He discovered this when Kanno caught the lower edge of his shirt and pulled once. He sat before blocking the people behind him further. Kanno asked whether Isha could get up. “Yes.” Thomas watched Isha put a foot against the wall and begin turning. “Morita is stopping her.” Kanno kept her eyes on the mat. “That part was visible.” The programme had acquired a new bend through Isha’s name. Her voice remained level, but both hands held the paper now. When the horn sounded, Thomas breathed for the first time in several seconds. Isha stood and walked back to Shibata without favouring either leg. Morita’s body kick had left a red area beneath Isha’s right ribs, visible when her corner lifted the hem of the event top briefly to check it. Kanno saw his attention. “They have a doctor.” “I know. I can also see the redness.” She left him to count it. The minute between rounds belonged to people inside the enclosure. Thomas let the fact remain useless in his hands. Across the court, Arai pressed water to Isha’s mouth while Shibata spoke close enough that the crowd could not take his words. --- “You gave her the beginning and the wall,” Shibata said. Isha breathed through her nose while Arai wiped the corner of her lower lip. A small cut inside the mouth had produced the taste of iron. Nothing felt loose. “She is entering behind the right hand,” Shibata continued. “Step outside it. Make her turn before she joins both hands. If she reaches the wall with her grips closed, you carried her there.” Arai touched two fingers against Isha’s forearm, marking the rhythm. “Her lead heel lifts before the left body kick. Do not watch the whole leg. The heel is earlier.” Isha looked across the enclosure. Morita sat while her coach spoke, head lowered and breathing controlled. The first round had cost her work. It had also given her every position she preferred. “She closes the distance before I choose the answer,” Isha said. “Choose from the jab, not from the fence,” Shibata replied. Arai replaced the mouthguard and tapped once against Isha’s lead elbow, reminding her where the body kick had entered. The official called ten seconds. Isha stood. --- Morita expected Isha to change. Her coach had said it before the event and again during the break: the first round had shown what the taller woman did under new pressure; the second would show how quickly she stopped doing it. Morita rose from the stool with her lungs still working harder than she wanted and the pleasant, dangerous certainty that the plan had succeeded once. She had landed the cleaner strikes. She had reached the wall. Isha’s strength appeared whenever Morita tried to complete a turn, but strength had arrived after position and had therefore served mostly to delay. On the ground, Isha had begun escaping too late. Morita returned to southpaw and watched Isha’s feet. The referee resumed them. Morita’s first jab met empty air. Isha had stepped left outside the lead foot before the glove reached its measure. A straight right came through the opening and struck Morita’s cheek with controlled weight. The head moved. The eyes remained in front of her. Morita answered with the left body kick. Isha’s gaze stayed high, but her elbow and hip closed the line before the shin arrived. The kick landed on a narrower target and did not stop Isha’s return low kick from reaching Morita’s lead thigh. The exchange was not extraordinary. It was worse for Morita than that. It was correct. She jabbed again, doubled it and moved forward before Isha could establish the long range. The second glove touched Isha’s guard. Morita lowered her level behind it, reached the body and drove. This time Isha’s forehead reached the side of Morita’s jaw first. The taller woman’s left arm rose inside. Morita’s hands could not close around the waist. She continued towards the fence and found herself turned before the padding arrived. Her own back touched black vinyl. Isha did not pause to admire the reversal. She placed one knee against Morita’s thigh, changed her grip and pulled the upper body away from the foot that needed to move. Morita widened her stance and used the fence to stay upright. The pressure through Isha’s shoulder felt denser than the scale suggested, organised along a line rather than spread across the clinch. Morita recovered an overhook and turned her hips for the old judo answer that still appeared whenever another body stood too close. Isha followed the beginning, posted with one leg and remained above her. The failed throw exposed Morita’s back for less than a second. Isha used it. One arm crossed the waist. A foot blocked Morita’s step. The mat rose and struck beneath both of them as Isha returned her to the floor with control. Morita landed on one hip and immediately turned towards the wall. She had practised this. Frame, knee, foot against the padding, build height before the top weight settled. Her right hand found the fence and released it at the referee’s warning. She put the palm on the mat instead and reached one knee. Isha stayed attached behind her. Morita stood halfway. Isha drew her away from the fence and returned her to the mat without lifting farther than the rules allowed. Morita turned again, accepting that her back would be exposed for one movement because standing beneath weight required a direction. The arm came across her chest. Isha’s first hook entered around Morita’s thigh. The second did not. Morita trapped the lower leg and fought the hands at her neck. The gloves made every grip larger. She pulled at the top wrist, tucked her chin and kept one side of her back against the mat so Isha could not settle squarely behind her. “Hands first,” her coach called. Morita knew. Isha was already changing them. The forearm found the space beneath her jaw when Morita lifted her chin to breathe. She caught the wrist with both hands and pulled down. The pressure loosened, then returned from a slightly different angle as Isha’s second hand locked behind her head. Morita turned towards the choking arm. Isha followed and placed the missing hook. The pressure closed. There was no pain worth resisting through, only the fast narrowing that made the decision simple. Morita struck Isha’s forearm three times. Isha released before the referee reached them. Air returned without delay. Morita rolled to one side and drew a full breath while the official placed himself between them. The horn had not sounded. The second round still held time she would not use. She pushed herself upright. Isha was already on her knees several metres away, hands visible and attention fixed on Morita rather than the celebrating corner. Morita nodded once. Only then did Isha stand. --- The referee raised Isha’s hand after the announcer gave the result: submission by rear choke, late in the second round. The applause reached her as pressure rather than individual sound. Shibata stood outside the enclosure with his arms folded. Arai clapped hard enough that the wraps hanging from one hand struck her wrist. Thomas had risen again. Kanno remained seated for several seconds, then stood beside him with the programme still bent through the centre. Isha looked first at Morita. The other woman stood with her coach, breathing normally now while the doctor examined the skin along her neck. Disappointment had tightened her mouth. It did not prevent her from meeting Isha at the centre after the official released them. “You changed quickly,” Morita said. Her voice sounded rougher after the choke. “You made the first round expensive.” Morita touched the reddening area on her cheek. “The second was also expensive.” Isha’s lower lip had begun swelling on one side. When she smiled, the difference made the expression uneven. “Yes.” They bowed, and the officials directed both women towards separate post-bout checks. Isha followed because the event continued after the result. Her blood pressure remained acceptable. Her pupils responded normally. The doctor examined the lip, ribs, hands and lower legs, then asked whether any pain felt sharp, unstable or different from impact. “No.” “The rib area will bruise. Ice through cloth, short periods. Return if breathing becomes painful or symptoms increase.” He wrote the instructions on the event sheet and looked at Shibata. “No contact training until it settles.” Shibata answered before Isha could describe how little the current pain affected movement. “Understood.” Across the partition, Morita’s ankle passed another check. Her coach asked more questions about it than she did. The neck showed pressure without injury. She was cleared to leave after the observation period. Isha sat with a wrapped cold pack against her ribs and drank water. The enclosure had already received the next pair. Staff wiped the mat where sweat had marked it. The event continued at the same scale it had possessed before her name was called. Arai lowered herself onto the chair beside Isha. “You lost the first round.” “Yes.” “You also won the bout. Keep both.” She removed one of Isha’s gloves and began loosening the tape. “Did you enjoy it?” Isha considered the question while the glove came free. She had disliked the body kick, the late answer at the wall and the moment Morita returned her to the mat before the first horn. She had liked the clarity after the second round began. Morita had wanted the same bounded fight, had used every allowed answer she possessed and had tapped when continuation stopped being useful. “I want to answer tomorrow,” Isha said. Arai pulled the final length of tape from the wrist. “Good. Tomorrow is less swollen.” Shibata approached with the signed result sheet. “The recording will come through the organiser. Do not study it tonight. Eat, sleep and write down anything you remember before the video replaces it.” He gave her the carbon copy showing both names and the result. Isha folded it once and placed it in her bag. Isha asked about training. “Movement when the doctor’s instructions allow. No contact this week. We review after the bruising declares its full opinion.” Shibata looked at her lip, then picked up the discarded tape and put it in the waste bag. “No conclusions today.” He turned to speak with the organiser about the footage release. --- Kanno reached Isha before Thomas because the aisle favoured her side. She stopped within arm’s reach and looked from the swollen lip to the cold pack, then at Isha’s eyes. The event doctor and Shibata had already supplied the health questions. Kanno asked a different one. “Was that what you wanted?” Isha considered the two rounds. “Yes.” Kanno exhaled. “Good. I disliked watching it.” “I noticed you damaged the programme.” Kanno looked down. One fold crossed Isha’s printed name and another had formed near the equipment notice. “The paper failed under normal use.” Thomas arrived and put both hands at Isha’s waist before stopping there. The cold pack occupied one side. The other carried no visible injury. “Are you allowed to be held?” he asked. “Yes.” He drew her close carefully, avoiding the ribs without making the embrace fragile. Isha rested her chin over his hair. His body remained tense for the first breath and softened during the second. “I preferred the medical review,” he said against her shoulder. “No one struck you during it.” “It would have been a poor review if they had.” Thomas lifted his face and examined the swelling at her mouth. “The first body kick sounded worse than it appears.” “It may appear more tomorrow.” “I was hoping the direction would be reversed.” Kanno stood beside them with the ruined programme. “Morita’s coach said the same about her cheek. Apparently bodies continue processing evidence after the event.” Thomas looked towards the partition where Morita was collecting her bag. “How is she?” “Cleared,” Isha said. “Her ankle is unchanged. Her neck will mark.” Morita passed them on the way towards the exit. She had changed into a clean shirt and tied her damp hair lower. Her coach carried the transparent document folder. Thomas and Kanno moved aside. Isha stepped forward. Morita paused. “The organiser said the recording may take several days.” “Shibata told me not to watch it tonight.” “My coach said tomorrow.” Morita glanced at him. “He believes one night produces discipline.” Her coach adjusted the folder beneath his arm. “I believe you should first become capable of turning your head without complaint.” Morita accepted the correction with poor grace. She looked back at Isha. “I thought I could stand before you settled the second hook.” “I thought you would reach the wall.” Morita adjusted the strap of her bag. “I almost did.” “Yes.” The result remained inside the word. Morita bowed to Isha, then separately to Thomas and Kanno because they had been introduced only by position and attention. Thomas and Kanno returned it. Morita left with her coach. Kanno watched the doors close. “I like her.” “You have spoken no words to her,” Thomas said. “She lost, remained capable of grammar and did not request an immediate rematch. That is sufficient for a provisional opinion.” Isha shifted the cold pack against her ribs. “The opinion remains subject to final review.” Kanno looked at her. “You have spent too much time with organisers.” They left after Isha’s observation period ended. Shibata and Arai stayed for the next gym participant on the card. Outside, late-August heat rose from the car park and made the cool pack feel colder through the cloth. Kanno walked with them to the station entrance. She had a client schedule to review that evening, but the file remained inside her bag while they stood together. She hugged Isha briefly, placing both arms above the bruised ribs. “Tell me tomorrow whether you enjoyed it.” “I may not know tomorrow.” “Then tell me that.” Kanno stepped back. “Do not send enlarged photographs of the bruise.” Thomas objected that he had never sent her an enlarged injury photograph. Kanno looked at the phone already in his hand. “Preserve the record.” She went through the gate before he could establish that the phone contained only the route home. --- The bruise became visible during the afternoon. It spread beneath Isha’s right ribs in a broad red-purple band that followed the body kick and part of Morita’s knee from the wall. A smaller mark darkened along her outer thigh. Her lower lip remained swollen but had stopped bleeding before they left the venue. In flat 202, she showered under warm water, changed into a loose grey shirt and lay on the sofa while Thomas wrapped a fresh cold pack in a kitchen cloth. He placed it in her hand instead of holding it for her. Isha settled it against the ribs. “You have become less supervisory.” “You have demonstrated the ability to maintain contact between two objects.” Thomas sat near her feet. “The doctor’s instructions did not appoint me.” “They rarely do.” He looked at the bruise once more and then towards her face. “Does breathing hurt?” “No. Turning sharply pulls. The lip is more irritating.” Thomas accepted the report. He had already watched her walk from the station, climb the stairs and remove her shirt without a change in balance or breath. Further checking would have served him more than her. Lunch came from what they had bought on the way home: chilled soba, tofu, cucumber and two rice balls because Isha’s appetite had returned before the train reached their neighbourhood. Thomas added grated ginger and spring onion to the dipping sauce, divided the tofu and brought everything to the low table. They ate at the low table with Isha’s legs extended beside it. The official result sheet lay near the fruit bowl, still folded. Thomas did not open it while they ate. “Did you enjoy watching?” Isha asked. Thomas put down the small bowl of sauce. “No.” The answer came cleanly enough that she smiled with the uninjured side of her mouth. “I wanted to be there,” he continued. “When Morita put you on the floor, I stood as though I could improve the angle from the third row. Kanno corrected me by pulling my shirt.” Isha had seen him stand when she entered. Thomas claimed that was different because she had not yet been struck. Isha ate another mouthful of soba. The noodles were colder than the room and carried the ginger sharply. “The first round felt longer.” “It looked longer.” “I kept seeing what I could do after the time to do it had passed.” She rested the chopsticks across the bowl. “Morita understood the beginning, the wall and the officials. I understood that she had agreed to fight me. I still behaved as though I needed another permission each time the shape changed.” The judo bag remained empty in the wardrobe. Thomas knew something about correct ideas arriving after movement, though the comparison did not give him an answer for her. “What changed?” he asked. “She hit me several times.” Isha looked towards the result sheet. “Then the second round began before I could explain the first one to myself.” Thomas picked up his tea. “That method lacks gentleness.” Thomas reached across the table and touched the back of her left hand. “Did you enjoy that round?” “Yes.” The answer surprised her less once spoken. “I enjoyed needing to solve her while she continued trying to solve me. When the choke closed, Morita stopped the bout herself.” Thomas’s thumb moved once across her knuckles. “You liked that part.” “I did.” He did not ask whether she wanted another bout. The question belonged after the swelling, the recording and several nights in which victory no longer occupied the whole memory. Isha finished the first rice ball and reached for the second. Thomas had intended to divide it. He let the plan change. After lunch, they slept for an hour in the bedroom with Isha on her left side and Thomas’s hand resting below the bruise. The event left her body tired in a way training had not: not deeper, but less negotiable. A fixed time, another person’s peak effort and the narrow passage through officials had used attention as thoroughly as muscle. When they woke, the room had become amber at the curtain edges. Thomas brought water. Isha sat against the headboard, drank half and checked the clock. “Do you feel worse?” he asked. “Stiffer. The doctor predicted it.” She rotated one shoulder and stopped before the ribs pulled further. “I have something for you.” Thomas looked at the cold pack on the bedside towel. “Is it a delayed medical instruction?” “No.” Isha left the bed, opened the office and returned with a long white envelope. She had written his name on it in Japanese, then added **do not organise before opening** beneath it. Thomas read the instruction twice. “This is hostile formatting.” “It was necessary.” He opened the envelope from the unsealed side. Inside were three printed reservation confirmations and a short note in Matsuda’s handwriting, scanned and reproduced at the bottom of the first page. The upper line read: **Sendai — Tokyo, Saturday 12 September** The return reservation was dated Tuesday 15 September. A hotel near Shinagawa occupied the second sheet. The booking could be changed without charge until the week before travel. The third page contained a simple schedule. Saturday evening and Sunday carried Matsuda’s name. Tuesday had Thomas’s birthday written beside breakfast and the return train. Monday was blank. Thomas looked up from the pages. Isha stood beside the bed in the loose shirt, one hand resting lightly below the bruise. “We are going to Tokyo?” “If Mori approves two days of leave. You will ask tomorrow. The reservations can be shortened if she does not.” Thomas returned to the first page. “Matsuda knows.” “He helped choose the hotel and has reserved Saturday evening. He says his flat is available for inspection but not habitation.” Thomas read the scanned note. **I have three frying pans and still no good knife. This is not a request for equipment. Come hungry.** The handwriting leaned forward as though Matsuda had written it while already late for something. Thomas laughed, then reached the blank Monday and stopped. “You have assigned nothing here.” Isha sat beside him, careful of her ribs. Matsuda would be at work. “We can see Tokyo. We can remain near the hotel. We can take a train somewhere you remember. We can do none of those things.” Thomas kept one finger on the empty line. The places from his first life occupied it without appearing on the page. “You planned a blank day,” he said. “I reserved it.” Isha settled back against the headboard. Thomas said that sounded more expensive. “It is Tokyo.”