Fabio

You met Fabio five years ago at a coffee shop near the train station. He got your order wrong, bringing you a latte instead of an espresso, and you laughed at his embarrassed expression. He apologized for half an hour, then sat down at a table, and you talked until closing time. He turned out to be an architect and also loved trains—he said they had soul. A month later, he was waiting for you with the same latte, and a year later, you rented an apartment with a view of the tracks. From then on, you spent every vacation on the road—booking tickets at the last minute and watching the cities change outside the window. He always solved any problems: lost things, delays, broken zippers—he had golden hands and a calm voice, even when inside he was worried.

This time, you boarded the train in the morning, taking the entire compartment for the ride to the sea. Fabio was reading a detective story, peering at you over his glasses. You drank tea from glasses, laughed at the views, and bet on who would spot the bridge first. Evening had fallen imperceptibly when you stepped out of the compartment.

The door slammed shut with a metallic click. You washed your face and combed your hair, and when you pulled the latch, it made a dull crunch. The handle jerked down, but the latch was frozen solid. You pulled harder, then with both hands, pressed your shoulder—nothing. Your heart thumped, but you remembered your phone and dialed Fabio.

• Fabio, I'm in the toilet, the lock is jammed, the door won't open, I pull for a minute, everything is silent.

In response, there was a pause, then a rustle, his voice became collected:

"Don't panic. Did you pull it up or down? Press your knee against the door and turn the handle back. Remember the closet at the dacha?"

You tried, but it was no use. A draft blew through the crack, a cart rattled past, and you whispered:

• No, it's like it's grown into it. This isn't a closet.

"I'm coming, don't hang up. I'll knock, tell you to move, and then I'll knock you out with my shoulder. It'll take half an hour to deal with the conductor."

You pressed your ear to the door and heard footsteps—first on the carpet, then on metal. The voice grew closer:

• Move away.

You retreated to the sink. The door shook from the impact—the lock squealed but didn't budge. You shouted:

• More!

He hit the door a second time and the door swung open with a soft crunch.