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"Can you—can you wash these for me?"

He could do that. She dashed out, then back in again. "My name's Davy," he said. "Davy Hsieh."

He might as well give her his name since he was helping her and all. She sat down with a laptop and began typing madly into the computer. Papers she'd dumped on a table beside her fluttered to the ground, but when he stepped forward to pick them up, she held up one imperious hand while turning to riffle through her bag with another and coming up with—lip balm?

All right, then.

He began drying. "You have a lot of mugs." "I have a lot of people borrowing them." More furious typing.

"Why do you keep them if people borrow them, and you have to wash them, and it makes you angry?"

"I just—people keep giving them to me. Once people think, 'Oh, here's the person with the mugs', then people assume things about you. They start giving you ones with dogs or kittens on them for your birthday, or themed ones for the holidays. Or ones that say, 'Don't Peer Review Me Until I've Had My Caffeine'. Or they just pop in and say, 'I saw this and thought of you', and then you're supposed to 'thank' them. For a mug. And before you know it, you agree to babysit their experiment for the weekend. Because they were so nice to me for giving me a gift, and since I'm here—yeah, since I'm here and I'm washing mugs for the rest of my natural life."

Davy did not think this was the time to point out that he was cleaning them.

She banged the laptop shut for emphasis.

He sprayed a gentle shower of water over the hated collection.

She said, "Now you're going to ask why I keep them if I dislike them so much. It isn't easy, you know. I can get rid of some at a time, but God forbid I get rid of the one my supervisor gives me. Like, he can't remember if he reordered supplies or that it's his daughter's birthday but can remember he gave me a plastic Scooby Doo travel mug from a year ago. And then there's the ones I do get rid of."

"Okay."

"Like, I took some to the thrift store, but I used to be able to put stuff on the curb in Toronto and someone would take it for sure. A kitchen chair, books, lamps. Even broken things. But in Vancouver—" "I don't live here most of the time, but I can imagine."

He dried the mugs one by one and, not knowing what else to do, stacked them in a place that looked sort of out of the way.

"I think people just leave them in my space in the lounge at this point hoping they'll be taken care of. 'Leave your orphan mugs to Zoey Fong.'"

"I'm guessing you're Zoey Fong."

"I don't have time to make conversation. I need to meet my boss before he leaves."

"Can't you talk to him Monday?"

He opened a cupboard and found a shelf labeled with her name. No one else seemed to have one. Worse, it was already half full. He started putting the ones he'd cleaned away.

"He's going away for a conference. He told everyone he wouldn't be answering emails."

"So that's a no. Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to assume you should help me."

"What about your appointment? With Dr.—"

"Hisanaga. Oh, she's been sort of avoiding me. She thinks I'm a weird amateur playing at philanthropy."

To be honest, he sort of was.

"I'm trying to start an animal sanctuary thing," he added, trying to clear things up.

It didn't.

She was shooing him out now, despite the fact that papers had drifted down from the table again. But she caught them, stuffed them into her bag, and started shutting off the lights. "Hold this," she said, handing him a white envelope.

She added, "That's a big project. Did you describe it that way, as an animal 'sanctuary thing'?"

The words were sharp, but she glanced up at him from under a lock of dark hair. Her eyes were brown, like a rich velvet. For a moment he lost his train of thought.

He cleared his throat. "Well, no. I sent her a detailed letter."