How when I lost my bag, Mitsutsuka kept me company, even going with me to the police. I thought about the coffee. And the thousand yen I borrowed. About how we walked back to the station on that brilliant day, the way he turned by the stairs and came back. About the first time that he said my name. His voice, the way he said it. The faded patches of his worn-out dark blue polo shirt. The fraying corners of his shoulder bag. How
