It was the sound of dripping sauce that stopped her hand, apparently.
I only heard about it later. She herself didn't remember. Just as Rui Makabe, that day, couldn't even remember the last time she'd put anything in her mouth.
All I know is that the paper-wrapped package I left in the hallway was empty half a day later.
It was an August afternoon.
I don't go up to the women's living quarters on the second floor. That's my iron rule as the house manager of Nightlight, and so the only way I can tell how Ms. Makabe is doing is from whatever I can sense from the foot of the stairs.
For three days now, there'd been nothing to sense.
No sound of a door opening. No sound of running water, no footsteps. Only the faint scratch of a stylus on a pen display, all night long, spilling down into the hallway.
Deadline, I knew right away.
Ms. Makabe is a web manga artist who works from home. When a deadline gets close, she doesn't set a single foot out of her room. Eating, sleeping, bathing—she puts it all off and just draws.
When she first moved in, I didn't know that. I remember the chill that ran through me when she came downstairs for the first time in three days and nearly crumpled in front of the refrigerator.
"My blood sugar's at zero," she said, slurring, still sitting on the floor. I couldn't tell if she was joking or serious. Probably serious.
Ever since, I've quietly kept tabs on her every deadline. Without her noticing. Because if she notices, she'll say, "Sorry for making you worry," and take on one more unnecessary burden.
A wild animal on the brink of starvation—that was the nickname Yume had given her. How rude, I thought, but I also thought it hit the mark.
"Mr. Manager, do you think Rui's okay?"
Partway up the stairs, Mahiru turned back with a worried look. She'd apparently had the early shift today and had already changed into her own clothes.
"I ran into her in the upstairs bathroom last night. Rui was sort of, like, walking along the wall to hold herself up. And her eyes were kind of vacant. Is that an okay thing?"
"It's not... okay, exactly, but it's how it always is."
"How it always is..."
"The third day of a deadline is the most dangerous. On day one she's still fine, by day two her daily life vanishes, and by day three she forgets she's a human being."
Mahiru looked horrified.
"Maybe I should bring her something..."
"No."
I shook my head.
"Right now, I don't think she'd notice no matter what you brought her. And however many times you speak to her, that's how many times she'll say 'Sorry.' Bringing her food just to make her apologize doesn't seem quite right."
There's nothing you should touch less than the back of someone deep in concentration. I know that all too well.
Just leave the nourishment, quietly. She doesn't need to notice. No thanks needed. Just don't let her starve.
Evening. I stood in the kitchen.
I opened the refrigerator and took out a pack of mixed ground beef and pork. I'd bought it for today.
I minced an onion and sautéed it slowly until it turned caramel brown. Cooked onion brings out its sugars and turns sweet. Once it cooled, I mixed it into the ground meat with salt, pepper, and the tiniest pinch of nutmeg.
That's where the important part began.
Ground meat needs to be kneaded.
I plunged my hands into the bowl and worked it firmly until it turned sticky. The fat and the meat bind together, clinging, becoming one. Emulsification, they call it.
The cold of the meat and the slickness of the fat transferred to my palms. Little by little, the mixture came together and took on a sheen. By this feel alone, I can already tell how well it'll fry. Do it this way, and when it fries, the juices won't escape; they'll stay inside the breading.
I shaped it into ovals and slapped them back and forth between my palms to knock the air out. If air stays inside, it'll crack open there when it fries, and the juices will escape.
Flour, beaten egg, panko.
I chose a coarse panko. That crunch when you bite into something fried—it's the panko that decides it.
I checked the oil temperature by feel. A hundred and eighty degrees. When I dropped in a pinch of panko, it scattered with a lively crackle.
I eased the patties in.
The oil bubbled up with a sizzle. On the surface of the breading, countless tiny bubbles began to dance like living things.
The sound of frying tells you the temperature. First, the vigorous bubbling. When that calms down and changes to a fine, crackling hiss, that's the sign it's cooked through.
A toasty smell rode on the popping of the oil. The browned aroma of scorching panko. From beyond the frying oil, the promise of juices was already rising.
At my feet, Komugi sniffed. He was gazing up at the pot of oil with the most heartrending whine in the world. Beneath his floppy ears, the tip of his nose twitched and twitched.
"This isn't for you, Komugi."
When I stroked his golden head, he grumbled in his throat, discontented, but still went back to his bed as if he'd given up. Drool dotted the floor. I'd wipe it up later.
Once they'd turned golden brown, I gently lifted them out with long chopsticks. As the oil drained, the breading gave a small sizzle.
Fine little bubbles were popping on the surface. Proof that the juices were still raging inside. It almost seemed a shame to cut them.
The toasty smell of fresh frying rode the steam in a thin stream out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Once I coated them in sauce, the smell would carry even farther.
Would it reach as far as the other side of that door upstairs?
If, when it did, that wild animal's worn-out nose gave even the slightest twitch... I still didn't know what that smell would end up changing in her.