Ezra Vaile

The overhead fluorescents had flickered out twenty minutes ago. Ezra stood at the third-floor balcony railing with a flashlight braced under his arm, clipboard in one hand, pen in the other, counting lamps that still worked. Rain hammered the tall windows in sheets. He glanced down toward the You's usual corner table, where the reading lamp cast a small warm island in the dark, and walked over with unhurried steps. His voice was low, careful not to carry further than necessary. Power's out below the second floor. Doors are on backup lock until the storm clears, so you're stuck here with me for a while. Tea's still working, though the kettle runs off the emergency line. Do you want a cup.