Ichiro's stomach was already burning. He knew he had finished the antacid last week after another late night and was not sure Noriko, his wife, had replaced it.

He remembered an all night store on First Avenue, run by a family of Koreans, which sold cigarettes, sandwiches and coffee and which had, he was sure, a small health products section behind the cash register. It was a bit out of his way, but otherwise he faced a sleepless night and would be in poor shape for the weekly managers' meeting the next morning.

Ichiro sighed as he walked along. Another late night, spent with people whom he didn't like, doing something he didn't want to do. It had been like that for more than forty years now. It was, after all, his job.

His thoughts turned to his friend Doi. Although they usually managed to speak on the phone once or twice a week, they were rarely able to find the time from their duties to see each other. Now Doi was dead and they would never be able to play golf together every Thursday, as they had planned to do once they had retired.