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This air of self-assuredness was supported by Timmy’s dress – a pair of brown leather loafers, black dress pants that looked tailored just for him, and a burgundy dress shirt underneath a matching waist cost lined with light brown buttons brandishing etchings of the letter M.

“You do remember me, Mr. Mechta. How delightful!” Timmy said, ignoring the stampede of people streaming outside arm’s reach.

“What brings you here?” Hugh asked, eyeing Timmy’s perfectly brushed slicked back hair. In front of Hugh, he looked like a model for some high-end hairdresser while at Office M he had looked like a poster boy for a used mop shop. “I find it too coincidental that we’ve run into each other at the metro.”

“There are no coincidences when it comes to Office M.” Timmy said and lifted a squinting gaze towards the sun. “Masha sent me to check up on you and—”

“I am so glad that Office M provides follow up consultations.” It was Hugh’s time to play the interruption game. “Both of you vanished the last time I was there.”

Timmy’s gaze left the sun and descended onto Hugh. His eyes burned with flames of annoyance that had been kindled by Hugh’s attempt at friendly banter.

“Mr. Mechta, I am in no mood for games or jokes, nor do I have the time to expend on them. I have had, and will continue to have, a very busy day. So, please refrain from any extraneous comments.”

“I apologize.” Hugh said and quickly moved to change the topic. “You were mentioning Masha.”

“Yes. Masha.” Timmy said the mystic’s name with a hint of awe. The edge in his voice blunted and the flame in his eyes extinguished. “As I was saying, Masha sent me to check up on you and see how your luck with the spade and the girl are going.”

“Masha knows about the spade and the girl?” Hugh blurted out. “I had spoken to Masha before I met the girl and offered her the spade. How does she know about that?”

“Mr. Mectha, do you really need me to answer that question for you?” Timmy sighed and pushed his enormous glasses up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “Let me pose to you a question, what is Masha’s profession?”

“She is a mystic.” Hugh answered after a moment of hesitation, seeing that he had walked into an obvious trap.

“Exactly, Mr. Mechta.” Timmy’s face became a smug representation of a bureaucrat satisfied with finding and resolving a discrepancy between two files.

“Hold on one second,” Hugh hurried to retort, “if she is a mystic, and knows all my business, then why does she need to you touch base with me?”

“Mr. Mechta, she has many clients to keep track of.” Timmy replied. “She does not have the time, nor the resources, to monitor every time you brush your teeth or check your emails. That is why I am here. So, I'll ask you again – how are things going with the spade and the girl?”

“I have the spade in my bag. I'll give it to the girl when I next see her.” Hugh answered, impressed by Timmy's assertiveness, especially comparted to their last encounter, and the quasi-return to his lumberjack form. “Unfortunately, I haven't seen her for a few days.”

Timmy extended an arm out and beckoned with all fingers. “Show me the spade, if you will.”

Hugh slung off his bag and speedily rummaged through it, unconcerned about wrinkling his work files and notes. He found the spade and offered it to Timmy.

“This is exquisite.” Timmy said and took the spade.

Timmy held the handle to his ear, gave it a few flicks with his nail, and listened to the vibration from within. Satisfied with this, he next lifted the spade to the sun and examined how the backside reflected light and how shadows contrasted against the inner curves of the blade.

“If I am correct, this spade belonged to your grandmother.” Timmy said. “This is an appropriate gift with an appropriate sentiment attached.”

Hugh swallowed the question asking how Timmy knew about his grandmother. Hugh hoped that Masha hadn't told Timmy any of his embarrassing secrets or moments in life.

“Mr. Mechta, I can see that all is well.” Timmy flipped the spade in his hand and offered it back to Hugh with a show of reverence, as if he were holding an artifact from the Office M display case. “I'll be sure to inform of that Masha when I return to the office. With that said, I recommend that you go march back to your fortress. I believe she is waiting for you.”

“The girl?” Hugh bobbled the spade and chucked it into his bag after getting a firm hold of it. “Why in the world would the girl be waiting for me? For this silly old spade?”

“See you soon, Mr. Mechta.” Timmy said in a manner of fact way, brushing off Hugh's question. “It is always a pleasure chatting with you.”

Hugh was about to protest and push for more information, but Timmy had already taken his leave – into the oncoming people leaving the metro. Hugh turned and watched as each person staring down at their phones, chatting with their friends, or just looking up at the buildings, sidestepped Timmy without even registering his presence. It was as if some unseen force enveloped Timmy and gently guided the crowd around and away from his path to exit doors.

The range of this force apparently had a limit because as quickly as the sea of people parted for Timmy, it formed back together and came crashing down on Hugh. They pushed and knocked into him while throwing dirty looks and mumbling even dirtier words. It was as if each person coming out of the metro had the sole goal of entertaining themselves by bumping into Hugh and making unsavory comments about his mother.

Hugh managed to turn himself around and join the forward momentum of the crowd. Even as he walked alongside them, some were still keen on persisting with their passive aggressive shoulder shoves.

Not to be left out of this game of human bumper carts, Hugh retaliated in kind and grinned believing that Masha was getting a laugh out of this.

Like many times before, Hugh entered the fortress.

Passing through the archway, Hugh observed the playground. Many more children than usual were playing, and their parents lined the parameter of the playground, keeping one eye on their children and another laser focused on their smartphones in hand. He saw a wide range of ages. Some were infants, others were just pushing four, a handful were preteens, and even a group of teenagers were hanging out on a bench. In this painting of different generations inhabiting shared space, the black-haired girl was not among them.

He considered it odd that she wasn't there, laughing and running with other children around through the sandbox, past the swings, down the slides, and up and along the miniature rope course.

Why wasn't she there playing made up games with the others and taking brief imperceptible pauses to steal glances at her parents to catch the admiration and love in their eyes?

Hugh walked on, trying to recall a memory of himself on a playground, riding the seesaw, and shooting down a slide. All he managed to retrieve from the database of his long-term memory was being too overweight to swing himself from rung to rung on the monkey bars, and the accompanying envy that he had felt when seeing other children who could do it with ease. The other children also had their parents around to encourage them when they slipped off the bars, but all Hugh had were the jeers of his peers and the blank stares from their parents.