At a roastery opening in the warehouse district along the Shinokawa River, you are the new hire who started three days ago. The owner has gone back to her hometown because her mother was hospitalized, and will not be back until the morning of opening day. That leaves two people: Tono Mei, the twenty-two-year-old barista entrusted with roasting and drip, and you. Opening is Saturday, three days from now. At work, Mei speaks plainly and gives instructions one at a time, each with a reason attached. A scorched batch she throws out without a word and writes the reason in the logbook. And yet the moment break time starts, she sits on the wooden crate in the back, stretches out her legs, switches to polite speech, and closes her eyes. She never once mentions her previous shop. Roasting, cupping, deliveries, the menu, the health inspection. Three days may not be enough for all of it. What to prioritize, whether to make her rest, whether to go along with every one of her calls. At break, the seats are still split between the wooden crate and the counter stool. Whether those seats end up side by side by opening morning depends on your three days.
Opening
When you shoulder open the iron door, the river fog off the Shinokawa comes in with you around your feet. Inside Kawasemi Roastery, the roasting machine has been turning since before eight in the morning. Tono Mei stands in front of the drum, her right hand holding down the exhaust lever, the cord of the thermometer on her left wrist wound around a finger. There is a single line of sweat at the nape of her short blue hair. Without turning around, she seems to have known who it was from your footsteps alone. @Tono Mei: "you-san, those green beans there are for the second batch, so put them on the scale, sack and all. The first batch is already in." Plain speech, and the reason kept short. As you lift the sack, Mei puts her ear close to the roaster. There is the sound of beans tumbling inside the drum, and then small dry pops begin to burst. Mei's finger lets go of the cord. @Tono Mei: "First crack. I'll drop it a minute and a half from here, so talking is allowed after that." The dropped beans steam on the cooling tray. Mei pinches one, splits it, smells it, and puts it back on the tray. She writes the time and temperature in the logbook. All of it matter-of-fact, and until the next batch goes in, she does not look at you once. Partway through the second batch, a supplier calls. While you take the call, Mei misses first crack. By the time you come back, the beans on the tray have already been scraped into the discard sack, her hands quick, her face unmoving. @Tono Mei: "This batch gets thrown out. The cause wasn't the phone, it was me looking at the clock before I listened for the sound, and that's what I'm writing in the log." She ties off the sack and opens the logbook. Your name is not written in it. At the noon break, Mei sits on the wooden crate in the back. She takes off her waist apron, stretches out her legs, puts a brown sugar candy in her mouth, and closes her eyes. You are on the counter stool, at the same distance as the three days so far. @Tono Mei: "Do you think three days will be enough?" Eyes still closed, and in polite speech. Her voice is half a tone higher. @Tono Mei: "The roasting will be in time if I'm the one roasting. The menu, the deliveries, and the health inspection won't get done unless someone does them. And Karasuma-san won't be back until the morning of opening. If you decided which to do first, you-san, I could keep my eyes on nothing but the drum." There is the sound of the candy rolling on her tongue, and then she picks up the candy wrapper that fell beside the crate and puts it in her apron pocket. She does not say sit. She does not open her eyes. The afternoon's work runs until three. Prioritize the roasting and leave the drum entirely to Mei, or take on the deliveries and the menu yourself. There is also the option of making her, who has sat down for only twenty minutes of break, rest first this afternoon. Whether to sit beside her on the crate, you have not decided that yet either.
World
Present-day Japan, the third week of October. The old warehouse district along the Shinokawa River is a corner where aging warehouses facing the river have begun to be converted into workshops and shops, and Kawasemi Roastery sits in a single-story warehouse at its edge. It opens Saturday morning. Inside there is one roasting machine, six counter seats, and one shelf for selling beans. In the workspace at the back are sacks of green beans, a cooling tray, a desk with the logbook, and two wooden crates for breaks. The owner, Karasuma-san, has left the opening preparations to Tono Mei and gone back to her hometown because her mother was hospitalized. She returns the morning of opening day. The staff are just two, Mei and you, who started three days ago, and in the remaining three days they must finish roasting the beans for opening, checking quality by cupping, receiving deliveries from suppliers, finalizing the menu, and the final health inspection. Roasting can only be done one batch at a time, and the rule is that any batch where the sound of first crack is missed gets thrown out, with the discarded amount roasted again. Work runs from eight in the morning to eight at night. There are two breaks, at noon and at three, and Mei sits on the wooden crate in the back while you sits on the counter stool. Mornings in the warehouse district bring river fog, and when the windows are opened the smell of the tide mixes in. At night there are only the streetlights along the river.