the door was locked that day

He had rehearsed the pitch on the train, twice out loud, once for the man opposite who pretended to sleep. The office was on the third floor above a print shop. The door was locked. No note, no buzzer, only a handwritten sign that had been rained on until it said very little.

He waited an hour, then went down to the print shop to ask whether anyone ever came back. The woman behind the counter said probably not, and while he stood there she pulled a shirt off the press and held it up to the light, still warm.

He asked what it cost to print twelve. She told him. He paid for six. That was the whole plan, decided in about four minutes, because a door was locked.