Chapter 18 — The Administrator

Mateo was in the kitchen.

Not the way someone who has broken in looks. The way someone who never left looks. Same tie as always, same files under his arm, same miniature cactus Hugo had always seen on the management office desk, now sitting on the kitchen counter without explanation.

Morning, said Mateo.

Hugo stopped in the kitchen doorway.

How did you get in?

Through the door, said Mateo. The way I always do.

Not ironic. Factual. As if there was a shared history in which coming through the door was routine, and Hugo knew it, and was only asking to confirm.

Mateo. You have been gone for months.

Mateo frowned.

I have been busy. End of quarter is always complicated. Did the community paperwork reach you?

Hugo looked at the cactus.

It was dry. Not just dry: dry the way something gets when it has been without water a very long time, past the point of needing it or past the point where it matters.

Mateo. When did you sign the handover papers?

What handover papers?

You left the position. There is a new administrator.

Mateo looked at him.

It was the first time, in all the time Hugo had known him, that he saw him falter. Not with confusion. With something deeper. The expression of someone trying to access a memory that is not there.

That is not right, Mateo said finally.

The new administrator has been in the role for three years. She has no record of you existing.

Silence.

---

Mateo set his files on the table.

The spine of the top folder was visible. Not the building address. Not the community name. A label: Active series — Pending units: 3.

He sat down.

Hugo sat across from him.

Mateo had his hands flat on the table, like someone trying to keep them from shaking. They were not shaking. But the effort was visible.

Have you been sleeping okay? Hugo said.

Not especially.

Sounds?

Mateo looked at him.

There used to be, he said. From above. But it has been a while since I heard them.

How long?

Mateo thought. Could not find an answer.

I do not remember, he said.

Hugo looked at the cactus.

When did you buy it?

Mateo followed his gaze.

Looked at the cactus for a long moment.

I do not remember buying it, he said.

His voice was the same as always. Same cadence, same way of forming words Hugo had heard through dozens of conversations about community votes and building assessments and maintenance schedules.

But the eyes were different.

The look of someone starting to suspect there are gaps in their history, and who until now had not needed to look into them because no one had asked.

Mateo, Hugo said. When did you come to this building?

Mateo looked at him.

I have always been here, he said.

Not as an answer. As a diagnosis.

Hugo looked at his hands on the table.

Perfectly flat.

Nails cut precisely. Too precisely.

Like always.