12 October 2026
Monday. Door handles. I have spent the whole weekend thinking about door handles.
A lesser villain would lock the van. Locks are vulgar. Instead the inside handles of the cargo doors are simply not there any more. Nobody is locked in. They have merely been relieved of the way out. I am very proud of this distinction and nobody else seems to grasp it.
In the cab, a police scanner murmurs to itself on the dashboard. Behind the driver, a pegboard of keys, each hanging from a little numbered tag. I will not write down what the numbers mean, even here. Especially here.
The worry is the space. The hold must be tight enough to feel like a held breath, which means it will not suit everybody. Guests who dislike small dark places should wait and read the warnings when they are published, rather than take my word for anything.
The studio keeps asking me sensible questions: how many guests, what price, what age, what date. I keep answering “soon” and “late next year” and “ask Northbridge”. This is, I am told, the correct answer.
— U.
