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“That does it! Detentions for everyone!” snapped the teacher, but her pupils weren’t listening.

Least of all to the red-faced guide, who after being ignored and verbally abused, spotted Oliver behind the scrum of misbehaving students. Her eyes glaring, she clenched her jaw in silent protest.

Words didn’t matter anyway. Oliver received her message—and Haruki’s—loud and crystal clear.

* * *

The remaining five hours of Oliver’s work day dragged like a year of Sundays.

What also didn’t help was the delayed subway and streetcar commute home, which fanned the flames of frustration eating away at him. At least his hunger would be satiated soon. Unlike most people Oliver knew, stress made his appetite voracious.

Arriving at the ninth floor of his building, he bolted from the elevator and into his one-bedroom rental, making quick work of the laces on his dress shoes. After a thorough wash scrubbing the city off his hands, he dove into the takeout bag from Fran’s, removed the Styrofoam container holding his club sandwich and fries, and yanked open the fridge, grabbing a jar of mayonnaise. His gaze lingered on the six long-necked bottles tucked into the door. If this monster of a day didn’t call for a cold beer, nothing would.

After one—no, three—lengthy pulls of pale ale, Oliver flopped onto the worn velvet couch, his knees just shy of his dinner on the coffee table. The fully furnished apartment, decorated by the elderly superintendent, boasted a décor of rattan chairs and macramé hanging plant holders amidst a colour palate of orange and brown. Its stuck-in-the-late-’70s vibe reminded Oliver of his late maternal grandmother’s house back in picturesque Gränna, Sweden, and all the happy times spent there.

A persistent red flash caught his eye.

“If that’s work…” he huffed, sprawling across the couch’s armrest. He poked the playback button on the answering machine, setting off several clicks, a screechy rewinding noise, then a bubbly voice saying, “Tag! You’re it!”

A vacillating beep signaled the message was over.

Oliver looked at his digital wristwatch. The glowing 03:29 was a glaring reminder it was still set five hours ahead to British time. He hesitated, then picked up the handset of the avocado-coloured phone and punched a number he knew by heart into the keypad.

While a succession of ringing tones played through the earpiece, Oliver pressed the television remote and the screen filled with a swarm of ravenous pigeons pecking feverishly in front of an empty park bench. A slow smile stretched his lips.

“I could’ve sworn there was an old guy here a minute ago,” said the TV announcer, his deep baritone playful yet authoritative. “From the feeding frenzy in Grange Park, this is Citytv—EVERYWHERE!”

Oliver laughed, enjoying the ten seconds of levity. “Okay, TV guy, you’ve convinced me. The pigeon advert is my new favourite.”

He hadn’t watched much television in Toronto, but whenever he was home, he’d turn on channel seven just to catch these blink-and-you’ll-miss-it slices of city life between programs. Thanks to the announcer’s cheeky voiceovers, the station I.D.s, which reminded viewers what channel they had on, were always entertaining and wildly different from the stuffy versions back in Britain. They proved useful, too. On three occasions, Rafferty had asked Oliver where he’d been besides work (the truth: nowhere), so he used the I.D. locations to fend off another earful of “You need to see the city, Ollie!” Casa Loma (a hilltop castle built in 1914), the SkyDome (where the Jays played baseball), and the Toronto Islands (home to beaches and a kid-sized amusement park) all came in handy, keeping Rafferty happy and none the wiser.

The pigeon I.D. gave way to a program featuring a cavalcade of models, their leggy strut soundtracked to the opening bars of the 1980s’ synthpop hit “Obsession”.

Oliver widened his eyes as the women bounced down a catwalk amidst a magical gothic forest. “What the—?” He loosened his tie, forgetting about the receiver pressed against his ear and his shitshow of a work day.

“Hel-lo?”

The rasp on the other end of the phone ended Oliver’s flirtation with FashionTelevision.

“Raff, hi!” He hit mute on the remote. “Did I wake you?”

“I wish, mate.” Rafferty broke into a lengthy yawn. “Insomnia is kicking my arse AGAIN. I’m making chamomile tea hoping it’ll do the trick.” He sniffed. “Sorry I didn’t call back yesterday. My train was delayed and I was hungover as fuck. Didn’t get in till gone midnight, then I nodded off in my takeaway.”

Oliver laughed and eased back into the couch. “So I take it the Haçienda was amazing?”

“Manchester always is! I danced for hours and met Ryan Giggs.”

“Should I know who that is?” asked Oliver.

“Ahh! Now that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy,” said Rafferty. “You may have moved to another continent, tried weird shit like raccoon tails⁠—”

“BeaverTails,” corrected Oliver. “What’s weird about a warm, flat pastry smothered in cinnamon sugar? They’re delicious. The truck parks outside the museum.”

Rafferty snorted. “Well, at least you’re still the same sports-hating heathen I know and love.”

“So this Giggs person is an athlete?”

“He plays footy for Man United. He and his mates joined us for drinks. They were young but nice.”