She’d spent the day with the curtains shut to block the sun, the AC and fan both on, surviving the heat of the day, while lying on her mattress reading and watching dramas. It was her usual pattern, to allow her body to recover after six straight days working on her feet. At 6 pm she turned the appliances off, opened the curtains and let the breeze flow in through the balcony door. For the first time in many months, the evening sky was cloudless. She saw the moon rising above the apartment opposite her, studied it briefly, and with a nod to it, turned away. By 9 pm she was shattered. She locked the balcony door and drew the curtains shut. She turned on the fan and crawled onto her mattress, with a single sheet draped over her. She lay for a moment, then stood again, returned to the curtains and parted them just enough to peep out, seeing that Takada was sitting alone on his balcony, eyes down, possibly looking at his phone. Should she go out and signal to him? A wave or a bow? No, she’d wait. He might message her in the morning. Hopefully.

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  He was on his balcony, but it wasn’t a phone that he was looking at. It was the trophy baseball, rolling around in his palm. Few things could match the familiar feeling of the ball between his fingers. He was wondering about his future. Was it possible he might throw again, defying the judgements of medical professionals? Could he play with an elbow brace? Start slow with some rehab? Maybe drop a playing level but try for a shift to first base? They don’t throw nearly as much. He wasn’t drinking beer, and he wasn’t only looking at the ball, as every minute or so he would flick his eyes up to observe the opposite balcony. He desperately didn’t want to see her. He wanted to think that she was locked in there, safe until dawn. He would soon retire to the bedroom, and he dreaded to think that he would be awoken during the night by the blare of sirens, by the reflection of red and blue flashing lights from the street outside his apartment. And he imagined that he wouldn’t. She would be okay. He turned his thoughts to what he would write in the message he would send her the following morning.