The elevator dinged; the doors slid closed on Leah's muffled bun-mumble.
"Excuse me," a man warned two floors down, voice sharp because his coffee had gone cold. "Elevator's full."
Leah shoved the last bite of cinnamon bun into her mouth and hit the button for ten. She had one hand on the paper bag and the other on her tote, where a laptop sleeve poked out like contraband.
"Why is everyone in this building in a hurry?" the woman beside her complained, pulling earbuds out. "Did the city decide to schedule panic hour?"
"Morning traffic," the man said. "Plus, the rooftop yoga crowd. They've been stretching since dawn."
Leah tried to concentrate on chewing. She kept her eyes on the elevator floor numbers and on the small, polite things that make strangers comfortable: breathe lightly, don't stare, don't talk to anyone unless spoken to.
The doors hiccuped at floor eight. Two people left, smiling and muttering something about a dog in a jacket. The elevator slowed. The space felt suddenly private.
A hand slid in the doorway and then a shoulder, and a voice said, "Sorry, late run."
"That's fine," the woman replied. "Hold the door?"
The man who'd squeezed in with them didn't bother with small talk. He stepped to the back, hands in the pockets of a navy coat, posture that said he owned seconds rather than minutes. He nodded at Leah with a face she couldn't place
