A Local Habitation by Seanan McGuire

powdered donut. “Toby?”
    “Yeah?”
    “You gave your name at the gate. When did we tell him mine?”
    I lowered my coffee a second time. “We didn’t.”

FIVE

    “ H OW LONG HAVE WE been sitting here?”
    “Fifteen minutes.”
    “It feels like hours.”
    “The clock says fifteen minutes.”
    “Maybe the clock isn’t running on normal time?”
    “Possible, but unlikely.” I stood, leaving my half-eaten donut on the table.
    Quentin frowned. “Where are you going?”
    “Out. This is unacceptable. They shouldn’t be leaving us here.”
    “He said to wait—”
    “And we waited. And now I’m leaving.” I grabbed the door handle and pulled. It didn’t budge. “Oh, great. Did they lock us in?”
    “Try pushing.” Quentin rose, coming to stand next to me.
    Eyeing him, I pushed the door. It swung open a few inches before swinging closed again. Quentin was trying not to smirk. He wasn’t doing a very good job.
    “Very funny,” I said, and shoved the door open as hard as I could. There was a startled yelp, accompanied by the flat smack of wood hitting flesh. The door swung back, and there was a loud thumping noise—whoever it was, I’d knocked them down.
    What a great way to meet people. I rushed into the hall, already apologizing. “I am so sorry! I didn’t know you were there! I—”
    “It’s okay,” said the man on the floor, flashing a grin that made my stomach do a lazy flip. I recognized him as the blond surfer-type from the first building. I just didn’t have a name to go with his undeniably appealing face. “That door should probably be labeled an unmarked traffic hazard—only then I guess it’d be a marked traffic hazard, so what’s the point?”
    “You’re probably right about that,” I said, grinning back. “I’m—” I paused as Quentin came skidding out of the cafeteria. “Hey. I appear to have found the locals.”
    Rather than offering the expected greeting, Quentin frowned, saying, “Oh. It’s you .”
    “Quentin!” I stared. “Don’t be rude.” Rude, and out of character.
    “It’s okay, let him be,” said the man, laughing as he held up his hands. “I’m used to it. I’ve got the sort of face that just pisses some people off.”
    “It’s not pissing me off,” I said, giving Quentin another sidelong look before turning to the man on the floor. “Quite the opposite, actually. Do you need help getting up?”
    “That would be good of you, since you’re the reason I’m down here.” He reached up, and I grabbed his hands. He had a good grip; not too light, but not crushing. This was a man who didn’t feel the need to prove much of anything.
    Smiling despite myself, I said, “I didn’t do it on purpose!”
    Quentin rolled his eyes. “Oh, whatever.” Turning, he stalked back into the cafeteria.
    I stared after him, confused, only to be distracted by the sound of the man next to me laughing. It was an unreservedly happy sound, and it warmed me to the toes.
    “Wait—you mean it wasn’t calculated? I was just a victim of circumstance? I’m hurt.” He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to look wounded. “There I was, walking down the hall, minding my own business, when a mad-woman tries to kill me with a door.”
    “Cut that out,” I said. It’s hard to stay grumpy when there’s a nameless six- foot-something surfer boy mugging for your amusement, even if your erstwhile assistant has just stalked off in an unexplained sulk. Besides, he was a cute surfer boy—not exactly handsome, but cute, with an angular face and freckles scattered across his nose. The cut of his sun-bleached hair was casual enough to look accidental, falling across his eyes in a rakish fringe. A small scar marred one cheek. It was the sort of face you don’t see in the movies, but you’d take home to mother without a second thought. Definitely not the sort of thing I thought of when I heard the phrase “computer programmer.”
    “Why?” he asked, smile broadening. He had a