The corner of the label had been lifting for three days.
Nora Delmas had glued it back twice, using the laboratory’s reversible adhesive and the prescribed patience, but the box’s gray cardboard rejected this tiny graft. At 5:12 p.m., when she should have been finishing the inventory of shelf C and leaving before traffic built up, she pressed her fingernail flat against the strip of paper and waited ten seconds.
She always counted to ten. Adhesives, elevators, people who promised to call back: she allowed them all the same interval before concluding they had failed to hold.
“You’ll end up putting a bandage on it,” Salomé said behind her.
Nora did not turn. The processing room was almost empty; carts stood between the tables like furniture abandoned after a reception. Ventilation blew above the fireproof cabinets with the sound of a distant sea. It was eighteen degrees Celsius, fifty percent humidity, and the phone in her coat pocket had been vibrating long enough for her to know who was calling.
“It’s a reference number,” she said. “It’s a bit of curling paper.” “A curling reference number.” “There. You’re already making a story out of it.”
Nora finally looked up. Salomé Rolin had taken off her gloves and held her bicycle helmet under one arm. At the edge of the table, the tray of rusty paper clips waited to be emptied. She had a way of looking at Nora without pressing, as though insistence were work she refused to do for free.
“Jules?” she asked, indicating Nora’s pocket. “Probably.” “You’re signing at six thirty.” “I know.” “That’s usually the definition of an appointment.”
Nora checked the screen. Three missed calls. One message: *Leaving the agency. Just tell me whether to wait for you.*
End of excerpt. Discover the other stories in this universe.