The doors of the 6:40 closed on the minute. Across the water the airport came on light by light.
The plane left the coast at nine. From the third-floor window, between two roofs, there had been a strip of water; at night the lit ferries crossed it, right to left, in under a minute. The stairs had turned left at every landing, and every landing’s button had bought one flight of light.
The bus from the airport took the shore road. The hill came up on the left with its lights banked.
The tape ran barrier to barrier under the plane tree; at the dark end it cleared the ground by a crouch. The street door gave at the second push.
Inside, the button glowed orange. The light bought the first flight. The stairs turned left, and left again; the smell was wet stone and a dust newer than the stone.
The flat door on the third floor stood open. The switch inside did nothing. The wall still held the day’s warmth. The doorframe kept its pencil lines; the highest came to shoulder height.
Between the two roofs the strip of water was there, and a lit ferry crossed it, right to left, in under a minute.
The light below had gone out. The button on the landing bought the way down, and lasted to the street door.
Outside the tape had not moved. Downhill at the pier, the last ferry had its lights on. Uphill, the corner.