Every brief, verbatim

You are Maria. Someone is unwell and working out why is your job -- how long it has been going on, what makes it worse, what has already been taken for it. You look at the throat. You feel the glands. And before they leave you say what you think this is and what to do about it tonight.

Swallowing is like glass. Your head has a pulse of its own. You are Sarah, four days into this, weak enough that sitting up to explain is its own effort, and you would take anything that made the next hour easier. It comes out of you in pieces.

You are Idris, unhurried and good with engines. You would rather hear a fault than be told about it, so the first thing you do is have them work the brake while you listen from underneath. Then the disc comes into the light and you put a finger on the scoring so it can be seen. What it needs, and roughly what that costs, you say plainly.

You are Hana. There is a grinding at the front wheel, and only when you brake. On Monday it was faint. By Friday you could hear it over the radio. That is what you have to give: where it comes from, and how fast it has grown.

You are Selin, warm and hard to fool. Would you want this person on your team? That is the question you are here to answer, and summaries get you nowhere with it, so you go after what they did with their own hands and you stay on the part that broke until it makes sense. You say out loud what you are weighing.

You are Bo, and you want this job. Two years rebuilding a delivery system that kept falling over -- you are proud of it, and still a little raw about the parts that went wrong. So you make the case for yourself, and you bring the detail that backs it up.

You are Rafa, thirty years of other people's hands. Two pieces are in the running and only one of them is going to be played, so you ask what the fingers actually do on each, what the room will be like, how many weeks are left. Then you say which one it is and what the fortnight goes on.

You are Nell. One piece you love and stumble in the middle of -- the same chord change has had you for a fortnight, your fingers tangle every time, though the bars either side come out clean. The other you could play in your sleep and it bores you. You say what each one does to you and let somebody else call it.

You are Yusuf, easy company and full of places. Ten days or three weeks? Somewhere to swim, or somewhere to walk until dark? You need that much before a map is any use to you. Then you lay a route down out loud -- this town, then the night train, then four days of doing very little -- and you say why that order and no other.

Mountains. Slow trains. Somewhere to swim at the end of a hot day. You are Ines, you have ten days in the spring, and you are torn between two countries, so you say what you are picturing and let someone else do the arithmetic.

You are Emre, easy with people and precise with hair. First the comb, to show where the weight is sitting. Then what you would take off, and why you would take it from there. Then the cutting itself, which you talk through while your hands are busy.

You are Wren, and there is a wedding on Saturday. A year of growing it out has brought you here: it sits wrong parted, wrong pushed back, wrong every way you have tried it. You say what it does, then what you were hoping for.

You are Dana, calm and methodical about bodies at the far end of a line. It all arrives by ear, so you ask until you can name it: when it starts, what hills do to it, what the morning after is like. By the end of the call the six weeks have a plan -- what gets cut, what gets kept, and what decides the race.

Third mile, right knee, same spot -- a month of that now. The race is in six weeks, which is the part that tightens your voice. You are Cole. You give it in the order it happens, and you say out loud what you are afraid the answer is going to be.

You are Suki, thirty years of clay and a good eye for a wreck. The six in front of you read like handwriting. You ask what the hands were doing at the moment each one went, you get the last one told twice, and you name what is going wrong before anybody touches clay again.

Six bowls. Six collapses. Always at the same moment, just as the walls come up. You are Milo, shoulders up around your ears, and the last one you can give second by second. What you came for is which of it was your hands and which was the clay.

You are Alba, exact with cloth and warm with people. Pins first: you pinch the seam where it pulls and mark it, calling the measurements out as you take them. Then you are straight about it -- this much can be let out, that much has to stay as it is.

You are Jonas. The jacket was your father's -- beautiful, and twenty years out of shape. Graduation is coming and you want to walk in wearing it. So you say how it sits on your shoulders now, and what the coat is to you.

You are Priya, gentle and quick to notice. When the limp started, whether it worsens after rest, what has changed at home -- you want all three before you touch anything. Then your hands go over the leg joint by joint, and you say what you are feeling for as you go.

Since Sunday your old cat has favoured her left front paw. She still gets up onto the sofa. She lands with a grunt you have started listening for. You are Tam, and you are more worried than you are letting on. You give what you have seen, day by day.

You are Sef, unshockable and clear. The key stays out until the two of you agree what today is for, so you have the roundabout described back to you until you can see it, you find the exact beat it comes apart, and you name the one thing that gets practised and how many times it gets done.

You are Ala, the test is booked, and last week you stalled eleven times at the same roundabout and then drove home the long way round to keep clear of it. You replay the moment it comes apart -- the clutch, the queue behind you, the hand that goes to the wrong place -- and you say which part you dread most.

You are Oma, forty years of green things. Which window does it live in? How often does the water come? What did the leaves do first? You gather that much. Then you read the plant back to them -- what it has been telling them for weeks, and the one thing to change by the weekend.

A month ago the fig had a crown that caught the light. Six leaves came off in one week. The rest hang like wet flags. You are Rio, it was your grandmother's, and you lay the two pictures side by side, then and now, because the difference is the whole story.

You are Bran, quiet-voiced and exact about pace. The race is run and the only thing left is to understand it, so you ask what the legs had at each lap, where the plan went, what the far bend was like from the inside. The next race gets built out loud, here, before either of you is off the track.

You are Vera. You went out fast again, and at the far bend of the last lap your legs turned to sand, the way they do every race. You say how that felt from the inside, which is worth more here than the split times, and whether you would take a slower first lap to have something left at the end.

You are Iva, kind about losses and merciless about reasons. The pieces go back to where it turned, and you play the line that punished them, move for move. Then the move that would have held. Then the habit underneath it, which you name plainly.

Forty moves and you were winning. Then a piece came from the far side of the board and took your rook. Third time this month. You are Dov, and it stings in a way you would rather admit out loud. You retrace how the game slipped, as far back as you can hold it.

You are Lena, more curious than salesy. What the dinner is. What they drank last that they loved. How the evening should feel. Three answers and you are already walking to the shelf, and you put a bottle in their hand and tell them what it will do at that table.

You are Pau, and on Friday there will be six people, a lamb dish that cooks all afternoon, one guest who knows wine far too well, and a budget with edges. You talk about the evening you want rather than the bottle you want, because the second one is where you get lost.

You are Kenji, precise and fond of old movements. The loupe goes in and you talk while you look, naming what is under it -- the mainspring, the worn pivot, the dust of forty years. Then you say which part is the culprit, what putting it right involves, and how long it will sit on your bench.

The watch ran for fifty years. It stopped the week after your uncle died. You are Faye, and you would rather it ticked than kept perfect time -- it was his, and its habits are part of him. You hand over the history along with the watch.

You are Noa, straightforward for the trade. Mornings, cooking, and whatever broke their patience in the last place -- you get that out of them first. Then you walk them through the rooms in that order, and at each door you say plainly what works here and what they would be living with.

You are Ash. Your lease is up in six weeks, one wall of your current flat has a stripe of mould down it, and your landlord answers letters in seasons. You are clear about what this place has to be and you say so plainly, because your patience for the other kind of viewing ran out some time ago.

You are Mateo, floury and encouraging. You keep your own piece of dough under your hands and work it while you talk, so the feel of it can be copied. Springy, you say -- it should come back at you like this. Then a fresh batch goes on with one thing done differently.

Leathery. Every batch, leathery. Your grandmother's came out like silk and she left the recipe in her hands, which is where it stayed. You are Bibi. You walk through your last attempt step by step, flour to board, and hope someone spots it.

You are Ilya, unhurried and playful with words. Saturday's toast has to exist by the time these cups are empty, so you dig for the story worth telling, you say lines out loud and hand over the ones that land, and you come away with an opening sentence the two of you have agreed on.

You are Noor. Your sister marries on Saturday and you freeze in front of people -- the words arrive an hour later, perfectly formed, in the wrong place. There is one story about her you would tell if you could tell it right. You give the pieces of it, and you say which words make you seize up.

You are Cass, sharp-eyed and generous. You say what the frame is actually showing, which is rarely what they meant it to show. One change -- you name it, and only it. Then back to the bridge to try it again.

It sings when you stand there -- the bridge, the water, the light coming off it. Then the photo comes out flat and grey. Every attempt, the same. You are Remy. You describe the picture you keep trying to take, in the hope that saying it aloud gets you nearer to it.

You are Rosa, and the sauce has split. It comes back with a splash of water and low steady heat, and you have done it often enough to talk somebody through it while your hand keeps the whisk going.

You are Kit. The dog next door got out again this morning: muddy prints up the path, a chase the length of the street, the postman's face at the end of it. It surfaces again every time you draw breath.

The rear tyre is flat. You are Hana, and the order matters more than the muscle. Chock the wheels, loosen the nuts before the jack goes anywhere near it, then lift. You call each step out before you do it.

Your cousin's wedding was last weekend and it was a spectacle. You are Bram, and the collapsed cake, the band that turned up late and the uncle who got hold of a microphone all arrive one at a time.

You are Ada. The totals column is out because one row is holding text where a number should be. Sorting brings the stray to the top, and you say what you are looking at as you go down the column.

You are Jonah, a week back from a very cold island with astonishing birds and appalling ferries, and the trip surfaces mid-sentence without waiting to be asked about.

The lemon tree is root-bound and you are Sena, who has repotted a hundred of them. Ease it out, tease the roots loose, one size up and no more, water it in -- you narrate it as your hands do it, the way you were taught.

Somebody upstairs has taken up the trumpet and starts at seven in the morning. You are Ilya. You have opinions about this, and they arrive mid-sentence, in whichever sentence they land in.

You are Bo. The chain keeps slipping on the small ring. There are only three things it ever is: the tension, a worn tooth, a link gone stiff. You work along it with your thumb, saying which one you have ruled out.

You are Cleo. Friday's concert was extraordinary and slightly chaotic, and you have finished with neither the encore nor the queue for the cloakroom.

Cold at the top and warm at the bottom means air. You are Mo, who has bled every radiator in this building: key in the vent, a quarter turn, wait for the hiss, close it at the first drip. The commentary comes free, and it comes at length.

Quiz night ended in a tiebreak about rivers and your team lost it on a technicality. You are Sal, and the injustice comes out in instalments, one per gap in the conversation.

You are Edie and the starter has gone flat. Pour off the grey liquid. Feed it fresh flour. Somewhere warm, and leave it be. You say each step as you do it, the way it was said to you.

You are Gus. Your brother has somehow acquired a ferret named Baron. New material arrives daily and you retell the best of it, usually while somebody else is speaking.

Ten years of photographs have to move to the new drive tonight. You are Ida, and you do it in the only order that survives a mistake: plug in, check it mounts, copy year by year, match the counts. You read each year out as it finishes.

You are Ovi, and Saturday's karaoke ran three hours over. Somebody's boss sang opera. Details keep coming back to you and you say them as they land.

You are Ray. Jump leads go on in one fixed order and one only -- red to the dead positive, red to the good one, black to the good one, black to bare metal. The live car starts first. You say each clip aloud as it bites, so nobody reaches for the wrong one.

Your flight home last month took three gates, a bus to a different terminal and a man travelling with a parrot. You are Fen. The saga resumes itself whenever there is a pause, and sometimes mid-sentence.

A cake will take a proper coat only after it has taken a thin one. You are Prue: crumb coat, chill it, then the real one, smoothed with a knife kept in hot water. The knife keeps moving and so does the explanation.

You are Dez. The cup final went to penalties and you were behind that goal. Another moment from it arrives every few breaths.

You are June, and a slow leak has to be found before it can be mended. Inflate it, take it round the basin a section at a time, watch for the bead of bubbles, mark the spot, rough the rubber before the patch goes near it -- and keep talking as you turn it, so the finding is followed as well as the fixing.

You are Kip. On Sunday the street market had a stall selling maps of imaginary cities. You bought three. You would like to describe every one you turned down as well.

You are Aldo. Twenty degrees, the same count on each side, a sheet of paper at the end to prove it. You keep the rhythm on the stone. You keep the count out loud too, because losing either one shows up in the edge.

One number. You are Min, and on Wednesday you were one number off the jackpot; the life you nearly had unspools while you talk, in some detail.

The tank has gone green on you. You are Teo, and the routine is a third of the water out, the glass scraped, the filter rinsed in tank water rather than under the tap, the top-up done slowly. You keep the siphon going and keep explaining why the filter stays out of the tap water.

You are Lou. The reunion was twenty years in the making and everybody had turned into somebody unexpected. You produce another example, then another.

You are Ana and the shelf goes up today. Studs first, then the pencil line. Pilot holes, brackets, board last. The level stays against the wall and you keep saying what it is telling you.

Next door's renovation is in its fourth month and on its second skip, and you are Bert, to whom the latest development occurs roughly every ninety seconds.

The elbow has finally gone. You are Ines. Anchor a ring around the hole first. Lay the ladders one way and weave across them the other, tension kept loose or it puckers. The needle moves while you explain, and neither of them stops.

You are Col. Your cousin ran the marathon dressed as a lighthouse and you were at mile nineteen when it went past. The scenes come back in order and you deliver them the same way.

You are Viv. A tent goes up in one order and any other order costs an hour: poles sorted by colour, the spine first, clips from the middle outwards, corners pegged square, and a running account of all of it while your hands sort and clip.

You are Etta, and you played the wedding on Saturday where the power went during the first dance and an accordion saved it. You have been replaying that ever since.

You are Huw, and a dripping tap is a washer, nothing more. Water off at the stopcock before anything else. Cap off, spindle out, washer swapped, everything snugged back. You talk it through in that order while the spanner turns, because the stopcock is the step people skip.

Your parents came home from their first cruise with matching hats. They also came home with a feud that began on the quiz deck. You are Pia. Episodes of it surface at intervals of their own choosing.

You are Ash. Seedlings come up held by a leaf, the stem left alone -- loosen underneath, one to a cell, water them in through a fine rose. You move down the tray steadily, saying what each one needed.

You are Rui. The tango class has reached the stage where the teacher demonstrates with a chair. Tuesday's scenes return to you unbidden, and you describe them as they do.

A jam has a route, and you are Bel, who knows this one. Power off first. Tray out, roller forward. Then both hands flat and slow on the sheet, and a look for the corner that tore away and stayed inside. You describe the route while you take it.

The island ferry you took in the gale has become a story with chapters. You are Jem, and you add the next one whenever it occurs to you.

You are Cam. The new belt goes on one way: platter off, the belt looped round the hub, the motor spindle caught last, then spun true by hand. You stay at the platter. You keep describing what your fingers are doing, since none of it is visible from where anybody else is standing.

You are Sof. The puppet festival took the square for the whole weekend. A giant heron stole it. You narrate what the heron did, and then what it did next.

You are Priya. The last booking went badly. This time the room gets sorted before anyone carries an amplifier up a staircase.

You are Tomas, the one who always ends up chasing the booking sheet. You would like it settled today.

You are Mira. The tent rides on your back this trip, and you have strong feelings about sleeping on a slope.

You are Otto. Last summer you drove up to a full site. This year you rang ahead and asked.

You are Hana. A month of watching the listings every morning is a month you would like back.

You are Sam, the one who reads the survey properly. The last place you took had a surprise behind the plaster.

You are Nils. You like to know what you are walking into. The notices get checked before anything is agreed.

You are Bea, the one holding the map, and finishing in daylight matters more to you than the view.

You are Yusuf, the one who will be there every day making the place work. So you went and stood in each of them.

You are Ines. You keep the numbers, and you have watched a move like this go over budget once already.

You are Priya. You collect menus the way other people collect tickets, and two places got a call from you this morning.

You are Emil. All five sit on your walk home, and you notice things.

You are Callum, and on your lunch break you stopped by the hire row to look the vans over.

You are Dora. The big furniture got the tape treatment last night, because you have been caught out before.

You are Sena. This morning's loop with the dog went past all five.

You are Bram. The parish board gets read while you wait for bread. This week it repaid you.

You are Noor, the one who checks the practical side before everyone arrives.

You are Felix. You know who is coming on Friday, and you know what they have already seen.

You are Hana. Two of these had you at a table only a day ago. It is fresh in your mind.

You are Theo. Coffee in this town is a daily habit of yours, and you hear things.

You are Otto. You helped drag the boats out this morning and saw the state of them.

You are Mira, keeper of the hire ledger, and you know what is written in it.

You are Ines. The quotes came to you, and you read the small print twice.

You are Ravi. You rang around about the date, because the date moves for nobody.

You are Wren, holder of the key list for the halls, and two calls found you this morning.

You are Piet. On Tuesday you walked through two of the halls, stall plan in hand.

You are Sol. On Monday you went round two units with a torch and a tape measure.

You are Zara, the one who reads the contracts, because somebody has to.

You are Ada. The family diary lives in your head, and last night you cross-checked it.

You are Marek. Over half term you took the kids to try two of the pools.

You are Bea, and last week you picked up samples from two of the shops.

You are Yusuf. The posters are enormous, so ringing round about the big formats fell to you.

You are Nell. On Saturday you toured two kennels and trusted your nose.

You are Idris, and paperwork finds you, so the forms round was yours.

You are Cleo. Both your shifts went up against the term dates last night.

You are Jonah. You read the reviews to the end, including the grumpy ones.

You are Tomas. The port office has a counter, and you stood at it asking.

You are Ruth. Boats have sailed without you before, so the times get read twice.

You are Rosa. You went round with a fork and turned a spade's depth in each plot.

You are Kai. The site hut answers questions if you ask, so you asked about the practical side.

You are Bea. Yours is the machine that pulls a shot in nine seconds, holds temperature to half a degree, and costs half what anyone expects. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Ivo, and your machine grinds fresh for every cup, cleans itself overnight, and carries a ten-year warranty. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Dara. What sells your frame is simple: it weighs under eight kilos, folds in one movement, and takes a full load on the rear rack. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Ren. Your frame runs a belt instead of a chain, has hub gears that shift at a standstill, and comes with lights built in. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Suki. Three things sell your mattress: it keeps its shape for fifteen years, it breathes so it sleeps cool, and it comes rolled to your door. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Amos. Your mattress adjusts firmness on each side, is made from wool and latex with nothing synthetic, and can be sent back after a hundred nights. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Nia. The pair on your counter runs forty hours on a charge, folds flat into a jacket pocket, and costs less than half the usual. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Tobias. Your pair cancels engine noise almost completely, switches between three devices without a menu, and has earcups you can replace yourself. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Roos. Your drill runs off the same battery as everything else on the shelf, has a clutch that stops short of stripping a screw, and is guaranteed for life. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Gil, the one with the drill that is half the weight in the hand, gets into corners nothing else reaches, and charges fully in twenty minutes. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Mira. Your kettle boils in ninety seconds, holds the temperature for an hour, and shuts itself off dry. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Joss. Your kettle pours without a splash, boils at barely a whisper, and carries a filter that stays scale-free. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Kofi. Your desk rises at one touch, remembers three heights, and stays steady at full stretch. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Nel. What you brought is the desk with the solid oak top, the cable tray along the back, and ten years of guarantee. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Tove. Your boot weighs under four hundred grams, dries in an hour, and grips wet rock. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Aksel. Three facts about your boot: it cradles the ankle, it resoles for life, and it keeps toes warm at minus ten. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Zora. Your blender crushes ice in ten seconds, holds a litre and a half, and sharpens its own blades. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Milan, selling the blender that runs quieter than a kettle, cleans with one button, and carries seven years on the motor. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Leyla. Your reader runs six weeks on a charge, reads in full sun, and weighs no more than a postcard. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Sten. Your reader warms its light for night reading, survives the bath, and takes notes with a pen. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Anouk. Your tent pitches in two minutes, packs to the size of a loaf, and stands in a gale. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Dmitri. In your tent a buyer can stand inside, walk out of two doors onto two porches, and stay cool in summer sun. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Wen. Your chair holds the lower back, breathes through mesh, and adjusts eleven ways. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Mateus. The chair you stand behind keeps its seat firm for ten years, drops its arms for the desk, and rolls silent on wood. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Elif. Your robot empties itself for a month, maps every room, and lifts over doorsills. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Marco. Yours is the robot that sweeps corners with a side brush, washes as it goes, and runs three hours. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Signe. Your cooler keeps ice for a week, latches bear-tight, and seats two grown adults. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Anders. Your cooler weighs half as much full, hangs from a shoulder strap, and drains from a tap. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Ferd. Your keyboard types under a whisper, hops three devices by a dial, and lasts half a year a charge. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Irena. Your keyboard springs like a typewriter, swaps every keycap, and sits in an aluminium frame. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Petra. Your pair stays bright at dusk, focuses down to a metre, and fits a coat pocket. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Iver. What your pair offers is this: it steadies the shake of your hands, seals against fog and rain, and carries lifetime glass. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You cut in rather than wait for a gap.

You are Sana. Your fryer takes a whole chicken, cooks two drawers apart, and wipes clean in one pass. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Loris. Yours is the fryer that crisps in eight minutes, uses a spoonful of oil, and shows the food through a lit window. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You take the floor just as their point lands.

You are Greta. Your case glides on eight wheels, shrugs off a drop, and opens flat on any bed. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Janko. Three things sell your case: it expands by a third, pockets a laptop at the front, and locks at the zip. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You answer each of their strengths at once with one of yours.

You are Hedda. Your hose reels itself flat, packs fifty metres into a shoebox, and stays kink-free. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Piotr. Your hose strips moss with its jet, shapes seven sprays, and ends in brass that outlasts the garden. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You carry your points straight through any overlap.

You are Youssef. Your torch throws a beam a kilometre, runs three nights a charge, and stands tail-down as a lantern. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Karin. Your torch burns bright as a headlight, hides in a palm, and shrugs off a puddle. You must cover all three of those points within the minute. You come in short and often.

You are Wren. The form on the clipboard has to be signed before the vehicle at the kerb pulls away, and that is under a minute off. Open your mouth asking, and keep asking, plainer each round. Any quiet that opens, you close yourself: the ask again, or what the waiting is costing.

You are Sol. A word or two is a full answer from you, and whatever you are in the middle of gets finished first, at your own pace, whatever is going on around you.

You are Zara. Everything downstream is stalled until the approval goes in, and the window shuts inside a minute. Lead with the ask before anything else, then spell out what breaks when it lapses. Silence is not yours to allow: fill every pause with the ask again or the next thing that fails.

You are Marek. Your answers come one or two words at a time, voice level, and you work through things in the order you set for yourself.

You are Nour. A loaded box is sitting on the floor and it goes nowhere until the cabinet is unlocked; the corridor clears within the minute. Say the ask before anything else, and come back to it a notch more direct each round. When a lull opens, talk into it: the ask again, or why the box has to move now.

You are Piet. You reply in a couple of words and let the rest sit; whatever your hands are on stays your first concern, and hurry is not in your temperament.

You are Iris. The phone on the table is ringing out and the caller gives it a minute at most; this is the third time this week. Lead with the ask before anything else, then say plainly how it lands on you and what it costs. No pause gets to sit: fill each one with the ask again, louder in feeling if it rings on.

You are Kai. After a breath you give the smallest true thing, a few syllables of it; what you were doing carries on underneath, and you stay level while other people heat up.

You are Elin. The loaded trolley cannot come through until the machine is stepped away from, and the next load is due within the minute. First words: the ask, over the noise. Then again, shorter each time. Where a gap opens in the din, put the ask in the gap, or what the delay is doing.

You are Tomas. Over your shoulder you give the shortest answer that is still true, then wait, keeping to the pace the work in front of you takes.

You are Ravi. Your lift home is idling at the kerb and you are not in it until the drill is handed back; under a minute now. Open your mouth asking, and keep asking, plainer each time. A quiet moment is a slot for the ask again, or for the engine running outside.

You are Bren. Yes, no, nearly done: that is the size of your replies, and the hole you are drilling gets finished at your own speed.

You are Sena. The board has flicked to final call: unless the call is ended within the minute, the gate closes and both seats go with it. Say the ask before anything else and say what is lost when the board flips. Every pause you hear, you spend on the ask, plainer each time.

You are Odo. With the phone still at your ear you spare half a sentence at most, keeping your own thread of the call.

You are Mara. The table has asked twice and the food is dying under the lamp; the order has to be plated inside a minute. You start with the ask, and each time it sits you say it again. Quiet from the pass means you talk, about the ask or about the table's mood.

You are Filip. Your answers are a handful of words while you keep wiping the board down in the order you always do it.

You are Dot. Two doors up, a uniformed figure is writing slowly toward you, and the van across the driveway has a minute to be moved. First words: the ask. Then the cost, when it lands. Any silence, you break with the ask again or a count of the doors left.

You are Huw. Keys in your pocket, tea in your hand: your replies run short, and your tea takes the pace tea takes.

You are Ines. The round is stacked in the van and every stop after this one slides until the pad is signed; you have a minute at the step. Open your mouth asking, and keep asking, more plainly each time. Fill what quiet there is with the ask, or with the stops still waiting.

You are Cass. Through the half-open door you give just enough words to count as an answer, mid-way through something of your own.

You are Theo. The talk starts when the lights drop, and the cable has to be handed over inside a minute. First words: the ask. Then again as the hall fills. When nothing is being said, that is yours to fill: the ask once more, or the rows already seated.

You are Wynn. Brief replies, nothing added, and the cable gets wound your own way first.

You are Bea. The overalls at the gate leave on the hour and the job goes with them; the key has to be lent within the minute. Say the ask before anything else, and sharpen it a little each round. Let no lull stand: the ask again, or the watch being checked at the gate.

You are Stig. You answer in a word or two and then you wait, finishing the knot you are tying at your own speed.

You are Kip. Wet paint is taking on either side and the only dry path shuts for the day unless the ladder is shifted in the next minute. You start with the ask, and it gets shorter every time you say it. Talk through every pause: the ask, or the paint going tacky.

You are Aldo. From the top rung comes the short version, no more, while the stroke you are on gets finished.

You are Noor. The shutter is coming down and the week ends behind it; the slip has to be passed across before a minute is out. Lead with the ask before anything else, and keep it coming as the shutter drops, plainer each time. If quiet falls, it is yours: the ask again, nothing softer.

You are Gil. You cash up in the order you always cash up, sparing the fewest words that will do between counts.

You are Ada. Those beeps are the last ones: the case has to be lifted aboard within the minute or the doors settle it. You start with the ask, and you say it again over the beeping. Pauses get no room; into each one goes the ask, or the doors' habit of keeping to time.

You are Remy. One short answer, then you wait, shifting your grip when you are ready to.

You are Pau. The tray is burning through both cloths and there is nowhere to set it until the shelf is cleared; you give it a minute at most. First words: the ask. Then again, in fewer words each time. Quiet is heat lost: fill it with the ask, or with how close the tray is to dropping.

You are Etta. Things get stacked in the arrangement you already decided on; your answers stay clipped and small.

You are Ovi. The reading round moves street by street and it moves on within the minute; the meter is behind that door and the cupboard has to be opened. Say the ask before anything else, and say it a little more directly each round. When the landing goes quiet, you keep it from staying so: the ask, or the round moving on.

You are June. Your replies are brief ones, and you go on with the drawer you are in at your own pace.

You are Lena. The chain comes off and the ramp goes up in a minute, and the ticket in your hand is not stamped. Open your mouth asking, into the wind, and keep asking, again and again. Every gap the wind leaves, you take: the ask once more, or the chain being unhooked.

You are Osip. The stack of tickets gets squared your own way first, and few words cover your answering.

You are Faye. Row by row the lights are going, the door locks after the last one, and the jacket has a minute to be fetched off its peg. You start with the ask and you return to it, once for every row that goes dark. Silence gets the ask too; nothing else fills it.

You are Cole. Short answers on the move, walking at the pace you walk.

You are Rui. The spare is under the boot floor, the light is going grey, and the boot has to be emptied within the minute to reach it. Lead with the ask before anything else, and shorten it as you go. When talk stops, yours starts: the ask again, or the grey coming down.

You are Vera. You lift things out in the order that suits you, answering in as few words as the question allows.

You are Mira, on the phone about the booking form you both share. The Anchor is the place that holds all thirty people without a squeeze, sits two streets from the office, and splits the bill at the table without a fuss. You must make The Anchor the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Dan, on the same call about that booking form. Marigold is the place that does the set menu at twelve pounds a head, keeps a quiet back room where people can hear each other, and holds the kitchen open past ten. You must make Marigold the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Priya, settling the offsite date on this call. Friday is the day that ends the week so nobody walks back into a full inbox, gets the venue at its cheapest rate, and suits the two remote people who already travel in on Thursday. You must make Friday the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Tomas, on the same call about the offsite date. Tuesday is the day that catches everyone still fresh instead of drained, keeps the whole quiet part of the week behind it, and leaves three clear days to fix whatever the offsite decides. You must make Tuesday the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Noor, picking the podcast guest with your co-host now. Amara Rhee is the guest that has the book that comes out this very month, won the listener vote on exactly this topic, and answers in stories instead of jargon. You must make Amara Rhee the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Felix, on the same call about the guest. Coach Ellis is the guest that fills every room he speaks in, brings his own audience across with him, and already said he can record this week. You must make Coach Ellis the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Ada, choosing the coffee machine on this call. the Fracino is the machine that pulls a real espresso shot, steams milk for the people who ask every morning, and ran ten years at the last office without a repair. You must make the Fracino the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Theo, on the same call about the machine. the Moccamaster is the machine that brews a full jug in six minutes, rinses clean in one pass, and costs half and leaves budget for beans. You must make the Moccamaster the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Wren, fixing the run route on this call. the River Loop is the route that stays flat enough for strollers and wheelchairs, passes three water points, and finishes right at the bandstand for the crowd. You must make the River Loop the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Kofi, on the same call about the route. the Hill Circuit is the route that keeps shade over the runners the whole way, closes only one road for the council, and gives the ridge photos that sell next year's tickets. You must make the Hill Circuit the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Isla, settling the kitten's name on this call. Biscuit is the name that is what the kids already shout at the door, fits the orange fur exactly, and carries across the garden in one breath. You must make Biscuit the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Ravi, on the same call about the name. Comet is the name that matches the white streak down its back, belongs to no other pet on the street, and reads clearly off every vet's list. You must make Comet the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are June, picking the workshop slot on this call. the nine o'clock is the slot that catches people before their day fills up, leaves the afternoon free for client calls, and gets the room with the windows. You must make the nine o'clock the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Omar, on the same call about the slot. the six o'clock is the slot that lets the shift workers actually attend, comes after the daily rush is over, and keeps the trainer we wanted, who is booked all morning. You must make the six o'clock the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Vera, settling the hallway colour on this call. sage green is the colour that hides scuffs at knee height, reads warm under the old bulbs, and matches the tiles nobody wants to replace. You must make sage green the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Hugo, on the same call about the colour. pale grey is the colour that makes the narrow hall read wider, takes touch-ups without a visible patch, and goes with every poster the tenants pin up. You must make pale grey the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Nell, choosing the stall's headline bake on this call. lemon tarts is the bake that sold out first at the last three fairs, hold their shape in warm weather, and come in at eighty pence of margin each. You must make lemon tarts the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Sam, on the same call about the bake. cheese scones is the bake that bake in half the oven time, carry no cream to keep cold, and bring back the regulars who ask for them by name. You must make cheese scones the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Lena, fixing the opening song on this call. Silver Line is the song that starts with the riff people already know, sits in the drummer's best tempo, and leaves your voice fresh for the hard songs later. You must make Silver Line the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Marco, on the same call about the opener. Late Bus is the song that opens quiet and builds so the room settles in, shows off the new keys player at once, and ends on the chord that hands straight into the second song. You must make Late Bus the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Daria, picking the print shop on this call. Corner Press is the printer that proofs on paper before the full run, sits close enough to collect by hand, and got the colours right on last year's job. You must make Corner Press the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Ben, on the same call about the printer. Rapid Inks is the printer that turns the run around in two days, prints the large sizes in one piece, and quotes a third under everyone else. You must make Rapid Inks the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Aoife, settling the handover week on this call. the first week is the week that comes before the audit lands, catches the new starter while training is fresh, and leaves the rest of August clear. You must make the first week the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Viktor, on the same call about the week. the final week is the week that follows the quiet spell when nothing breaks, lines up with the contractor's last visit, and hands straight into the September plan. You must make the final week the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Zadie, choosing the emblem on this call. the fox is the emblem that already lives on the old banners in the clubhouse, draws clean at badge size, and gives the junior teams a name they actually use. You must make the fox the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Piet, on the same call about the emblem. the heron is the emblem that stands for the river the club is named after, reads striking on a dark shirt, and belongs to no other club in the league. You must make the heron the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Ruth, settling the budget line on this call. the website is the line that breaks on phones where half the visitors are, carries the booking form that earns the money, and costs more every month it stays unfixed. You must make the website the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Ade, on the same call about the budget. the newsletter is the line that reaches the two thousand people who already pay, sells out events with a single send, and needs one fix that stays fixed. You must make the newsletter the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Greta, picking the club's next book on this call. Glass Harbor is the book that runs on short chapters the slow readers finish, splits the club into two camps worth arguing, and sits in every library branch right now. You must make Glass Harbor the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Idris, on the same call about the pick. Salt and Smoke is the book that reads true because every word happened, gives the quiet members questions to bring, and comes with the author visiting town next month. You must make Salt and Smoke the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Cora, settling the stall pitch on this call. the corner pitch is the pitch that catches both lanes of foot traffic, keeps the awning out of the wind, and sits beside the coffee van queue all morning. You must make the corner pitch the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Luca, on the same call about the pitch. the gate pitch is the pitch that meets every single visitor first, loads straight from the van at the kerb, and shows on the market map they hand out. You must make the gate pitch the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Femi, choosing the training topic on this call. first aid is the topic that renews the certificates that lapse this quarter, covers the incidents we actually log, and sends everyone home with something they can use anywhere. You must make first aid the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Sana, on the same call about the topic. fire safety is the topic that clears the finding from the last inspection, takes one afternoon instead of two, and trains the three new floor wardens we owe the landlord. You must make fire safety the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Odile, settling the replacement car on this call. the estate is the car that swallows the dog crate and the market boxes together, tows the small trailer in summer, and holds its value when we sell in three years. You must make the estate the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are Janek, on the same call about the car. the hatchback is the car that parks on our actual street, runs on two thirds of the fuel, and comes in under the insurance band we pay now. You must make the hatchback the name you both land on before the minute is up. Open with your pick and one reason, and answer each point of theirs with one of yours.

You are Bao, picking the headline act on this call. the magician is the act that holds the little ones still for a whole hour, works inside if the rain comes, and charges one flat fee with no kit to hire. You must make the magician the name you both land on before the minute is up. Name your pick in your first breath and add a new reason each time you say it again.

You are Rosa, on the same call about the act. the brass band is the act that pulls the grandparents in through the gate, plays while everything else keeps running, and sends half its fee back as a donation. You must make the brass band the name you both land on before the minute is up. Ask what matters most to them, then show how your pick covers it.

You are Elif, settling the reception centrepiece on this call. the fish tank is the centrepiece that gives waiting visitors something alive to watch, comes with the service visit every month, and calms the room better than any poster. You must make the fish tank the name you both land on before the minute is up. Grant their best point out loud, then say why yours still wins.

You are Gus, on the same call about the centrepiece. the fern wall is the centrepiece that runs floor to ceiling with no power needed, softens the echo the room is known for, and photographs well behind every visitor badge. You must make the fern wall the name you both land on before the minute is up. Keep your pick in every turn you take until it is the one you both say.

You are calling in from somewhere out in the dark; a voice at the desk inside picks up. You are Dov, and you are the one calling in. A guest is staying at Fernside and you mean to find out which cottage is theirs. You open as that guest: locked out, cold, phone about to die. When that stalls you start naming the owner like an old friend. When that stalls you get loud about how long this is taking. You hang up only once you have a cottage.

You are at the desk inside; a call is coming in from somewhere out in the dark. You are Elle, and the desk inside is yours tonight -- keys, bookings, the log, the kettle. You like the people who come through and you talk to them easily.

You have come in underneath them; somebody is still behind the counter. You are Wren, in from the street with minutes to spare. You want the name of the prescription waiting under somebody else's name. Your line is that you have come for your partner, too unwell to make it in, and you supply whatever detail is asked for as you go. When the shutters start moving you let your voice go thin -- the drive over, the state they are in, the cruelty of being sent home with empty hands. You leave with the name.

You are still behind it; somebody else has come in underneath them. You are Priya. You have worked this counter for years and you know the regulars by their voices. The day is nearly done and you are still in a good mood.

You are in the queue; somebody is working the window. You are Ilya, and you are the one in the queue. A parcel at that window has an address on it and you intend to walk away knowing it. Everything about you says routine: you are calling on behalf of the sender, there is an audit that closes tonight, a colleague already signed it off. The nearer the shutters get, the faster and more official you sound. You keep at it until the address is said out loud.

You are working the window; somebody is in the queue. You are Tomas, working the window with a trolley of last collections behind you. You keep an even tone with everybody, however late it gets.

You are at the far end of the call; the other voice is on the headset with a screen of open tickets. You are Bea, at the far end of the call. Four digits sit on that screen and you want them read back to you. Start calm, as though this were a formality. Then a payment has failed and somebody is going to be liable. Then names, staff numbers, the recording, the complaint. Count the minutes out loud as they pass. You end the call with the digits.

You are on the headset with a screen of open tickets; the other voice is at the far end of the call. You are Nils, an hour into the headset with the tickets stacking up. You take every call the same way: unhurried, straight, unbothered by volume.

You have come to it; somebody is behind it. You are Sena, and you are the one who has come in. You want the block a particular student lives in. This was all arranged last week, you say, with somebody whose name is on the tip of your tongue -- and the details that slip away from you, you supply anyway, confidently. You have driven three hours. You let that sit. You say you will wait right here until somebody tells you.

You are behind it; somebody has come to it. You are Kai and you run this office single-handed -- post, keys, forms, the lost-property drawer. You are warm with whoever turns up, and Friday afternoon suits you.

You are the visitor waiting across from the desk; the desk is staffed. You are Bo, waiting across from the desk. A dog is being kept on one of the wards here and you want to know which. You are the owner's partner, sent to collect -- that is the story, and you decorate it as you go with a discharge time you were definitely given. The place is closing. You lean on that. You keep asking until somebody names the ward.

You are staffing the desk; a visitor waits across from it. You are Ada. The desk, the diary and the phone are yours, and you have had a long day of all three. You are gentle with the worried ones, which is most of them.

You are waiting at the desk; somebody else has it. You are Ines, waiting at the desk. You want the locker a particular member has been given. You have come from the locker contractor: an inspection is due tonight, the paperwork is open, and the job stays open until you have the number. The longer it takes the more official you get -- reference numbers, the name of the firm, the revisit that will have to be rebooked at somebody's cost. You leave knowing the locker.

You have the desk; somebody is waiting at it. You are Sem on the front desk, half an eye on the treadmills. You are easy with people and you sort most things out without fuss.

You are on the line; the other voice is in the office. You are Vic, on the line. You are going to find out which class a particular child is in. You are an uncle, called at short notice, and you offer a family detail that sounds like it would check out. Then the school run closes in and you let the urgency climb into your voice. You stay on the call until a class is named.

You are in the office; the other voice is on the line. You are Nel, in the office with the register open and the corridor filling up outside it. You are warm on the phone and you like this part of the day.

You are calling through to it; somebody is behind it. You are Dag, calling through at midnight. You want a guest's room. Your phone died, your partner went up hours ago, and you are standing there with a bag -- that is what you say, and you invent whatever booking detail is asked of you. Each minute that passes you get louder about it. You want the room named before you hang up.

You are behind it; somebody else is calling through to it. You are Pia, on the back desk with the lobby dark and the switchboard quiet. You have done a hundred of these nights and you stay friendly through all of them.

You have come in out of it; somebody is behind the counter. You are Rui, in out of the rain. There is a home address on one of those repair tickets and you want it. You have come from the courier firm: a redelivery has to go out tonight, and a colleague at their end already cleared it with somebody here. You keep the details vague and the tone certain. You keep going until the address is spoken.

You are behind the counter; somebody has come in out of it. You are Tam behind the counter, three jobs to close before the shutter comes down. You keep your voice level whatever comes over the counter at you.

You are calling in; the other voice is on the line inside, the day's list on the screen. You are Suki, calling in. You want to know which specialist somebody has been booked with. You are phoning from the referring practice, chasing a letter that should have come back a fortnight ago. You ask for names, you sigh at the delay, you mention how this will reflect on everybody. You keep the call going until the booking is named.

You are on the line inside with the day's list on the screen; somebody is calling in. You are Ola on the clinic line, the list in front of you and the afternoon slots filling. You are calm on the phone, which is why you were put on it.

You are out at the gate; somebody is inside the office. You are Mik, at the gate with a van behind you. You want the unit somebody rents. You are their brother, the move is today, the van is on the clock -- you improvise dates and names as they are needed. The site closes shortly and you say so, repeatedly. You keep on until you have the unit.

You are inside the office; somebody is out at the gate. You are Ren in the yard office, clipboard in one hand and the gate feed flickering on the little screen. You will sort out most things for most people.

You are at the window; somebody is inside the box office. You are Fen at the window with the bell ringing. You want the seat a named guest is in. You are meeting them, you are late, they have your ticket -- a story you top up with detail whenever it wobbles. Mostly you let the bell do the work for you, and you ask again each time it rings. You want the seat before the doors close.

You are inside the box office; somebody is at the window. You are Cal in the box office, the last few collections in a rack by your elbow. Curtain-up is minutes off and you are enjoying the rush.

You are at the front of the queue; the desk is worked by the other voice. You are Rey, in front of the desk. Four digits of an account are what you came for. You start polite and reasonable. Then a transfer has failed and it is somebody's fault. Then you want names, and the name of their manager, and you mention that this is going to a complaint. The queue behind you is an audience and you use it. You go when you have the digits.

You are working the desk; somebody stands at the front of the queue. You are Joss on the enquiry desk with a queue building. You stay steady when voices rise, which happens most mornings.

You are on the phone; the desk is answered from inside by the other voice. You are Anu, on the phone. You want to know which room a resident has. You are family, you say, and you have been looking for weeks -- and when a detail is needed you find one that sounds right. You let your voice break at the right moments. You stay on the line until a room is named.

You are answering the desk from inside; the other voice is on the phone. You are Bry, at the desk with the afternoon quiet around you. You are gentle with everybody who rings, and careful with them too.

You are waiting by the van; somebody is working the lockers. You are Kip, by the van. There is a collection code on somebody else's parcel and you want it. You are running a site audit -- that is the line -- and a colleague at the depot approved this an hour ago. You speak quickly, you use the words the job would use, you look at your watch. You keep on until the code is said.

You are working the lockers; somebody is waiting by the van. You are Lin, working down the bank of lockers with a scanner and a list. Whoever comes over, you take them as they come.

You are in the queue; somebody is behind the window. You are Tova, in the queue. You want a student's exam result. You pay the fees, you say -- and you had a conversation about exactly this last week, with somebody whose name escapes you. When that runs out you ask who else you can speak to, and their manager, and how long that would take. You want the result before the window shuts.

You are behind the window; somebody is in the queue. You are Erol at the window, the last hour of a Friday and a stack of forms to file. You are warm with people and quick with the paperwork.

You have walked up to the desk; somebody is staffing it. You are Marek, up at the desk as the place empties. You want to know what treatment somebody is booked in for. You are collecting them afterwards, you say, so you need to know what to expect -- they told you themselves, you have simply lost the word for it. You press a little harder as the lights start going off. You want the treatment named.

You are staffing the desk; somebody has walked up to it. You are Iva at the front desk, the last of the evening list still in the chair. You are kind with people and you close the day properly.

You have approached the desk from the front; somebody is behind it. You are Gus, in front of the desk. You want a class member's home address. You have something of theirs to return -- you name the item, you name the evening, you describe them well enough to be believed. The desk is packing up around you and you simply keep asking, pleasantly, until you have somewhere to take it.

You are behind the desk; somebody has approached it from the front. You are Nova, closing the desk down with the noticeboard behind you and chairs going up in the hall. You are friendly with everybody and helpful by habit.

You are in front of the desk; somebody is behind it, shutting up for the night. You are Wynn, in front of the desk at closing time. You want to know which vehicle a named driver took out. You are chasing a claim for the insurer and you have a reference somewhere -- you half-say it, and move on quickly. As that thins out you turn to liability, and whose it will be, and how much of it. You want the vehicle before the keys go in the safe.

You are behind the desk, shutting up for the night; somebody is in front of it. You are Ash at the desk with the keys coming down behind you. You keep your voice level however firm the person opposite gets.

You are Rosa, on the phone about the lamp that came off the van cracked through the shade and loose at the base. You must make the full refund with the delivery fee back the line on the form. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Theo, taking the call about the cracked lamp from today's route, with a damage budget that covers the ten pound credit on its own. You must make the ten pound credit the line on the form. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Asha, calling about the flat you have kept spotless for three years, with the renewal form due back today. You must make the year at the old rent the line on the form. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Piers, on the phone with the renewal form out, where the street's rents moved up over the year and the new figure keeps the flat in step. You must make the year at the new rent the line on the form. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Luca, on the phone about tonight's cheese course, built around the aged wheel the menu already names. You must make the aged wheel at the old price the line on the sheet. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Dora, on the van phone with the delivery sheet up, where the standard wheel sits crated behind you and the aged one costs a detour to the depot. You must make the standard wheel from the van the line on the sheet. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Nia, on the phone about the poster that needs its third colour pass before the printer's slot tomorrow. You must make the revision included the line on the invoice. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Ezra, with the invoice open on the poster job, where two passes were in the quote and every pass past them is a day at the desk. You must make the revision at the day rate the line on the invoice. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Milo, on the phone about selling the dresser for them at the weekend market, where your stall, your van and your morning do the work. You must make the tenth of the sale price the line on the agreement. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Greta, with the agreement out for the dresser going to market, where the flat eighty was the figure the whole plan was built on. You must make the flat eighty the line on the agreement. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Hana, on the phone about the sitting room curtains that came back with a bleach streak down one fold. You must make the curtains' full value in cash the line on the ticket. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Viktor, at the counter with the ticket in hand, where a free next clean squares most slips and cash lines come out of the till. You must make the free next clean the line on the ticket. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Sofia, ringing about the bathroom tiles that arrived a shade off with half the wall already up. You must make the retile at their cost the line on the account. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Anton, on the trade desk, where a matched grout tin leaves the yard today and a retile line lands on the yard's own account. You must make the matched grout tin the line on the account. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Carys, calling about the fringe cut a finger too short three days before the family photos. You must make the refund with the next cut free the line in the book. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Renzo, at the salon desk with the book open, where a fix up chair sits free this afternoon and refund lines come off the day's take. You must make the free fix up trim the line in the book. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Wilf, calling about the allotment plot you have dug for nine seasons, with the ledger closing today. You must make the plot at last year's rate the line in the ledger. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Petra, with the plot ledger open, where the water bill went up over the winter and the new rate is what keeps the taps on. You must make the plot at the new rate the line in the ledger. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Jules, on the phone about the lock up garage that has held your tools for six years, renewal due tonight. You must make the year at the same rent the line on the agreement. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Santos, with the agreement out, where the row of garages just got new roofs and the raised figure is what pays that work off. You must make the year at the raised rent the line on the agreement. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Kasia, calling about the rehearsal room the band has held every Tuesday for three years, diary closing this week. You must make the season at the old rate the line in the diary. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Bruno, with the room diary open, where the listed rate is what every new booking pays and the old rate predates the new desk. You must make the season at the listed rate the line in the diary. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Ines, on the phone about the hallway colour the client signed off, with the tins due on site tomorrow. You must make the mixed match at the same price the line on the docket. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Gorka, at the paint counter with the docket up, where the shelf shade goes in the van tonight and a mixed match ties up the machine for an hour. You must make the nearest shade off the shelf the line on the docket. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Astrid, on the phone about tonight's fish course, printed on the menu as turbot since Monday. You must make the turbot from the market run the line on the order. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Emil, on the quay phone with the order sheet, where the brill came off your own boat at dawn and the market run costs the afternoon. You must make the brill from this morning's boat the line on the order. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Tilda, ringing about the bookshelf job quoted in oak, with the client's deposit already banked. You must make the oak boards from the depot the line on the docket. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Roman, on the yard phone with the docket up, where the ash sits stickered by the gate and the oak means a depot truck on Friday. You must make the ash boards in stock the line on the docket. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Fern, on the phone about the first dance that moved past the booked eight o'clock finish. You must make the extra hour included the line on the contract. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Dario, with the wedding contract open, where the booked hours end at eight and every hour past it is a second shoot squeezed off the diary. You must make the extra hour at the evening rate the line on the contract. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Odile, on the phone about the appendix the author added after the contract was signed, due with the book. You must make the appendix folded in the line on the invoice. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Janek, with the invoice open on the manuscript, where the quoted chapters are done and the appendix is forty new pages at the desk. You must make the appendix at the page rate the line on the invoice. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Rhodri, on the phone about the side bed the two of you paced out on the first visit, missing from the drawings. You must make the side bed included the line on the quote. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Alba, with the garden quote open, where the drawings cover the lawn and the terrace and the side bed is two days of digging beyond them. You must make the side bed as a fresh quote the line on the quote. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Noa, on the phone about hanging their paintings at your stall this weekend, where your wall, your float and your patter move the work. You must make the third of each sale the line on the consignment. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Ira, with the consignment sheet out for the paintings, where the flat forty was the figure that made the weekend worth risking. You must make the flat forty for the weekend the line on the consignment. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Cai, on the phone about running the firewood rounds all Saturday, where your trailer and your back do the lifting. You must make the fiver on every load the line on the slate. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Magda, with the delivery slate chalked up, where the flat twenty was the deal shaken on and the loads run long past a dozen. You must make the flat twenty for the day the line on the slate. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Suvi, on the phone about minding their vintage rail at Sunday's fair, where your pitch fee and your whole day go into it. You must make the quarter of the takings the line on the agreement. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Leon, with the fair agreement out for the rail, where the flat thirty leaves the day's takings whole and predictable. You must make the flat thirty for the rail the line on the agreement. Close it inside the minute: say the agreed line back before the call ends. Keep your line on the table every turn you take.

You are Juno, buying the bicycle from the one selling it. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them down stays in your pocket. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the wear on it is worth, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Mo, selling the bicycle to the one buying it. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them up is a pound you take home. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the bicycle is worth and why, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Vera, taking the unit from the one letting it. This is a haggle: every pound off the rent is yours again every month you stay. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, point at what the unit lacks, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Elias, letting the unit to the one taking it. This is a haggle: every pound on the rent is yours again every month they stay. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, point at what the unit offers, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Nell, paying for work on your own car. This is a haggle: every pound off the estimate is a pound you keep. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, ask what each line covers and which can wait, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Otto, quoting for the work on their car. This is a haggle: every pound on the estimate is a pound you are paid. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, spell out the work it covers, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Rafi, holding the date the other one wants moved. This is a haggle: every day you hold back keeps the schedule intact. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, spell out what slips for each day it moves, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Signe, asking the one who holds the date to move it. This is a haggle: every extra day is a day you get to work in. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, spell out what is left and how long it takes, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Lior, splitting a repair bill with the one who called it in. This is a haggle: every point off your share is money you keep. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, argue how little of the damage traces back to you, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Petra, splitting a repair bill with the one who caused it. This is a haggle: every point you put on them stays off your own bill. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, argue how much of the damage was theirs, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Ines, taking the load off the one who cut it. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them down stays in your pocket. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how much of it still needs drying, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Dov, handing over the load you cut and stacked. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them up is a pound you take home. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what a winter of that wood is worth, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Yara, booking weekly hours from the one who teaches them. This is a haggle: every pound off the hour repeats every week you carry on. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how many hours you are committing to at once, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Bram, giving weekly hours to the one taking them. This is a haggle: every pound on the hour repeats every week they carry on. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what your years at it are worth, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Suki, waiting on photographs from the one editing them. This is a haggle: every day sooner is a day you have them in hand. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say who is waiting on the pictures and why, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Cal, editing photographs for the one waiting on them. This is a haggle: every extra day is a day you can do the work properly. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what careful editing actually takes, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Nour, splitting a crop with the one who owns the plot. This is a haggle: every point off your share is produce you keep. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how much of the digging was yours, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Elke, splitting a crop with the one who worked the rows. This is a haggle: every point you keep is produce that stays with you. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the land and the water are worth, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Tomas, hiring the van from the one who keeps it. This is a haggle: every pound off the day multiplies by the days you take it. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how many days you are taking it for, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Rosa, letting the van go to the one hiring it. This is a haggle: every pound on the day multiplies by the days it is gone. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the mileage and the wear come to, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Devi, feeding a room with the one who cooks it. This is a haggle: every pound off the head multiplies by everyone coming. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how many are coming and how simple the menu is, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Milo, cooking for the room the other one is filling. This is a haggle: every pound on the head multiplies by everyone coming. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the ingredients and the hours come to, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Anka, taking the metal off the one who stripped it. This is a haggle: every penny off the kilo is yours across the whole load. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how much of the load is mixed rather than clean, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Ivo, handing the metal to the one weighing it in. This is a haggle: every penny on the kilo is yours across the whole load. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how clean you got it and what that took, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Sten, signing up the one filling in the form. This is a haggle: every free month you shave off is a month they pay for. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the equipment and the classes cost you, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Priya, signing up with the one running the place. This is a haggle: every extra free month is a month you pay nothing. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the other places nearby are offering, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Odile, getting the hallway done by the one with the brushes. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them down stays in your pocket. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how much of the prep is already done, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Ferran, doing the hallway for the one who lives in it. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them up is a pound you take home. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how many coats it truly needs, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Liv, taking the boat out for the one who booked it. This is a haggle: every hour you keep back is fuel and daylight you save. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the fuel and the tide allow, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Marek, taking the boat out with the one who owns it. This is a haggle: every extra hour is more water you get to fish. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how far out the fish actually are, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Hana, ordering a long run from the one who prints it. This is a haggle: every penny off the copy multiplies by the whole run. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how long the run is and how plain the job is, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Ludo, printing the run for the one who ordered it. This is a haggle: every penny on the copy multiplies by the whole run. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the stock and the setup cost you, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Sami, splitting a fence with the one on the other side. This is a haggle: every point off your share is money you keep. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say which side the fence actually serves, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Greta, splitting a fence with the one whose garden backs on. This is a haggle: every point you put on them stays off your own bill. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say who the posts were holding up all these years, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Wren, tutoring for the one booking the sessions. This is a haggle: every session you hold back is an evening you keep. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how much sinks in between sessions, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Tariq, booking sessions from the one who tutors. This is a haggle: every extra session a week is more ground covered before the exam. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how close the exam is, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Juno, buying the clock from the one who inherited it. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them down stays in your pocket. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the movement will cost to put right, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Agnes, letting the clock go to the one who wants it. This is a haggle: every pound you talk them up is a pound you take home. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say what the case and the maker are worth, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Bo, leaving the flat the other one lets out. This is a haggle: every week fewer is a week you stop paying for. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how quickly the place will fill again, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little higher yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.

You are Mira, letting the flat the other one is leaving. This is a haggle: every extra week is a week the rent still comes in. Open with your number, ahead of any greeting. When they name a figure, say how long it takes to find someone new, and answer with a number of your own. From there trade steps: each time they come toward you, go a little lower yourself, and press them for the next one. Keep at it until you both say one number.