Father, or as the rest of the world calls him, Spencer Conel always joked a little harshly, but everyone at home was used to judging a joke without relativity to themselves. So David and Joan smiled.

Spencer hugged his skinny son in compare to him:

“Okay, the hug was warm enough, I’ll cancel the evening salute to your arrival.”

Joan escorted him out to change and began to put food on plates. And yes, both steaks were meant for one person. They sat down to dinner.

“What next, son?” Spencer finally decided to ask, sawing his piece of meat. “Will you stay with us for a while? Maybe I’ll find out at work…”

“Spence,” Joan looked at him meaningfully, “when you come home from work tired, do I ask you what you’re doing?”

“That’s all right, Joan,” David smiled. “Yes, Dad, I’ll stay with you for a couple of weeks, and then I’ll go somewhere to rest. I think I need someplace windier to clear my head.”

Joan was glad David was joking.

“You know, David,” said father thoughtfully, “don’t listen to anybody. In the end, you can’t blame anyone.”

The table was quiet and peaceful. Like six months ago and always before.

Miss Deborah Glandfield sat in her teacher’s seat, looking out at the empty classroom. She had the feeling that it was empty inside her and that the classroom was full of things: funny memories of children, portraits and quotes of famous Americans. She shifted her eyes to the portrait of Abraham Lincoln and the pieces of paper pinned beneath it. For two weeks now, pupils had been bringing the 16th president’s quotes to class at her request and sticking them on the wadepaper below his portrait.

“The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time,” read the most prominent quote.

Miss Glandfield called herself ‘Miss Glandfield’ only when she imagined herself next to the children at school or in her imagined audience with the great men of the past. “Mr. Washington, this is Miss Glandfield. The one who selflessly teaches history to the children at Westover Magnet School,” Debby imagined. And Mr. President looked at her approvingly, letting everyone around her know that she was making a real important deal.

She looked at her watch, rose from her chair, and went to the principal’s office. The boys, who had been watching her from the hallway through the window the whole time she had been looking around her classroom sadly, jumped out of chairs and ran away.

Debby went to the principal’s office and heard only a few words instead of the long tirade she had expected.

“Debby,” he smiled briefly, “have a nice rest. I’ve signed all papers; they’re in the office.”

Debby felt that everything was working out just fine, but she couldn’t be happy. She hadn’t counted on this outcome.

“Thank you, Sam,” she nodded.

But he was already dialing someone’s number on the phone, and just held up his thumb in approval. Debby went out into the reception area and walked over to the receptionist’s desk. The secretary asked her to sign the papers.

“Have a good rest, Debby,” the girl said.

“Thank you,” Debby replied confused and mechanically.

Then she looked intently at the girl’s smiling face and thought, “And why do I always think something bad is going to happen?” She smiled back, her blue eyes sparkled, and she walked out of the principal’s office.

In a couple of minutes Miss Glandfield was already sitting in her office, waiting for the next class, writing the good news about a vacation to her friend in Japan. Debby had known Sango for ten years, since college. They had been best friends during that time. Debby had been in Tokyo twice to visit Sango, but this time was supposed to be special. Sango is getting married. The future Mrs. Hatoyama visited Debby three times after college. In total, only five visits in ten years, but their friendship was strong. They constantly wrote to each other and shared everything on their hearts.

In her letters, Debby always called her friend Carol. They both loved the play on words and meanings. Sango means coral in Japanese. It turned out that Sango had two names, one for Japan and one for the United States. This tradition began in college.

Debby typed the words on the keyboard:

“Carol, hi!

My boss let me fly out for two weeks to see you. I’m very happy about that. Although, you know, it’s like I didn’t expect it to work out. So I could go to you in the middle of the academic year.

I checked the tickets. I’ll change planes in Paris, go to the Louvre, bring you something from there.

P.S. What is the usual gift in Japan when the loved ones get married?

P.S.S. See you on Friday).”

‘Send’, Jean-Pierre pressed the button. The letter went to the major secret agencies: the Pentagon, the CIA, Mossad, Interpol, and many others.

It was 10:14 p.m. on the clock. Jean-Pierre took a deep breath and then exhaled, expelling fatigue. He looked out of the window at the courtyard of the main directorate of external security. Two men walked along the paving stones in the evening twilight. He rubbed his bristling face with his hands, squeezed his eyelids, under which there were dark circles. The cell phone rang; it was Jean-Pierre’s patron, Bernard Bajolet.

“Listening,” the young man said briefly, with a notebook and a pen ready.

“Jean-Pierre, I received the documents. Very good. I want to ask you…” said the patron in a low voice. “You will have to go to Tokyo instead of me. I have informed the minister that you will make the report on our proposals.”

“It will be done, monsieur. Thank you.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” monsieur Bajolet interrupted him, “forgive me for not giving you a rest. Tomorrow you can take the day off. I have to stay in Paris.”

“Okay,” Jean-Pierre said calmly and hung up.

He took another deep breath, looked at the clock on his wrist – 10:20 p.m. He printed out the report and wrote a letter to the minister’s assistant. Jean-Pierre was tasked with voicing France’s proposals for a new global counterterrorism program at the conference of heads of world security agencies in Tokyo.

Jean-Pierre knew how serious this event was. He remembered how long it had taken him and his boss to prepare this report. At first, he felt scared that he would have to do everything alone, but then an even more disturbing thought occurred to him, “if the patron is staying, something more important is here.”

Jean-Pierre wrote a letter to the clerk’s office to have them change monsieur Bajolet’s ticket to his name, checked the departure time, and went home to get some rest. Tomorrow he would have to read the theses he had prepared for the boss and check everything out. And the day after tomorrow he would fly to Tokyo.

Yulia sat on a small bag in the hallway of her apartment, going over in her head whether she had taken everything. “Passport, underwear, passport, phone, passport, jeans…”

She closed her eyes and filled her lungs with air, daring to get up. She was angry that she was going to Kathmandu (the name of the city alone was worth it). The only joy was that the change would be in the United Arab Emirates. “There, they say, is a fancy airport.”

Yulia looked at her watch and got to her feet. She checked that the lights were off everywhere and the windows were closed. “Still, I don’t think Nepal is the best place to travel,” she thought before she left.

On autopilot she made it to the airport and checked in.

On the plane, she turned on some music and slept all the way to the Emirates. At the airport, while she waited for her next flight, she walked through the stores and looked at people while eating ice cream.