Cupboards opened. Closed. Fuu moved about her own kitchen with the quick precision of a honed blade, her hands slicing through the air to bring a bowl down here, a glass there. Doors and drawers hit wood with punctuation marks; small paper boxes snapped open from their staples. It was more food than either of them could eat, open, exposed to the air.

"Chinese." The word was again sharp, punctuated. "Dig in. Work will begin later."

And again she was gone, off to the small corner of the apartment that served as a bedroom. There was no door . . . The shoji screen snapped shut behind her.