Innocent World: Chapter 8

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Despite the conversation between Yamamura and the doctor, Hirokuni lay next to them, his breathing steady and calm. His flushed face seemed a little less red than before.

"Is he going to live in Japan from now on?" the doctor asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Yamamura replied.

"Must be tough, not knowing the language," the doctor said sympathetically.

"It’s tough for me, too," Yamamura said with a sigh. "Yesterday, when I was sick in bed, he stripped me naked and danced around like a maniac all night. I have no idea what goes on in his head."

"He danced?" the doctor said, looking intrigued.

"Yeah, he was dancing while mumbling and groaning the whole time," Yamamura said, still baffled by the memory.

The doctor crossed his arms and tilted his head thoughtfully, lost in contemplation.

"I can't say for sure," the doctor said, "but he might be something like a shaman. Maybe he was trying to exorcise your evil spirits."

Yamamura felt a chill run down his spine. "Are you saying something was possessing me? That's creepy."

"In the world of the Indigenous Peoples, you could call it their religion. They believe that everything is inhabited by spirits. When someone falls ill, it means an evil spirit has taken hold of the afflicted area. So, they go to the shaman, who uses the power of his guardian spirits to drive the evil spirits away."

"There's no way an exorcism like that could actually cure an illness," Yamamura said, dismissing the idea.

"Well, you say that!" The doctor leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I've seen shamans treat sick people before, and I have to admit, it doesn't always seem like a mere placebo. There are plenty of skeptics who refuse to acknowledge anything supernatural, and of course, sometimes the shaman's methods fail. But then again, sometimes... the patient gets better. And didn't you get better yourself?"

It was true that Yamamura's cold had cleared up unusually fast, but he didn't want to admit to anything so irrational. "Maybe it was just the natural timing of the recovery," he muttered.

"No, no," the doctor insisted. "You spent the whole night letting him drive out your evil spirits. I'm sure of it. You should be grateful."

Yamamura avoided the doctor's intense gaze and looked down at the sleeping Hirokuni. It was hard to believe that this same man, who could hit someone so hard they’d think they were going to die, would go to such lengths out of kindness. It seemed more likely that Hirokuni had been calling bad spirits to him rather than chasing them away.

"Spirits, shamans... their whole mindset seems a bit off," Yamamura said, shaking his head. "Just the other day, this guy said he wanted to date the old hag next door. She’s nearly sixty."

Yamamura had hoped the doctor would be shocked, but instead, the response was surprisingly casual. "Japanese people do tend to look young," the doctor said matter-of-factly.

"Wait, think about it. She’s almost sixty!" Yamamura protested.

"Oh, it's quite possible," the doctor continued. "Most Amazonian Indigenous Peoples practice polygamy. When one man has several wives, it leaves many men without partners. That means the women, even widows or those with multiple divorces, children, or even grandchildren, are still highly sought after. But for the men—especially in small tribes—finding a wife is a serious issue. They might even lay claim to a newborn girl, or bring in wives from other tribes, or sometimes even kidnap young girls from nearby villages. Actually, back in the day, it was more common for the Indigenous Peoples to kidnap girls. Though recently, more of them have converted to Christianity and now only take one wife."

Even with all the talk about the marriage customs of the Indigenous Peoples, Yamamura still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of a sixty-year-old woman being desirable. The doctor tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"Even if they're okay with women who already have grandchildren, they would probably still prefer younger ones if they had the choice," the doctor mused. "Maybe he doesn’t realize that there are plenty of single women in Japan. He probably just saw the single lady living nearby and thought he should secure her while he had the chance."

"Are you saying he’s actually in love with her?" Yamamura asked, doubtful.

The doctor’s eyes gleamed with amusement. "I don’t think they make a distinction between real or fake love. If they want someone or something, that feeling itself is their truth. For them, love for a sibling, love for a spouse, even love for a pet—all of it just falls under the category of 'something cute.' Their way of thinking is pretty simple and straightforward."

Yamamura couldn’t make any sense of it. He glanced up at the IV drip. The pale pink liquid still dripped slowly, only halfway through.

"Do you like beer?" the doctor asked out of nowhere.

"Huh?" Yamamura blinked, confused.

"Beer," the doctor repeated.

"Yeah, I like it, I guess," Yamamura said.

The doctor left the room and came back with two glasses and a large half-liter bottle. "The sun’s about to rise. A beer at dawn is a pretty fine way to start the day," he said with a grin.

Dumbfounded, Yamamura took the glass the doctor offered him. The doctor poured the beer to the brim, and they clinked glasses. The doctor downed his beer in one go, letting out a satisfied breath.

What’s all this about a ‘dawn beer,’ anyway? Yamamura thought, bewildered. He couldn’t help but think it was just a way to start the day off on the wrong foot. Shaking his head at the strange man in front of him, Yamamura took a sip of the beer. The cold carbonation spread through his sleep-deprived mind, waking him up just a little.

"You’re a good guy," the doctor said, smiling. "Not many people would sit in a clinic and have a drink with me. Flexibility in your thinking is important, you know. My son, on the other hand, has a head like a brick and can’t handle his liquor at all. Makes for pretty dull company."

"I see," Yamamura replied, giving a half-hearted nod. He found it amusing, in a way, that the doctor could justify his drinking as "flexible thinking."

"By the way," the doctor continued, "he doesn't seem to understand Japanese. Haven’t you been teaching him?"

"I’m trying," Yamamura said.

"And who’s the teacher?" the doctor asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I am," Yamamura answered.

The doctor let out a knowing hum. "But you don’t speak his language, do you?"

"No, I don’t. But Hiro does understand a few basic Japanese words," Yamamura said.

"Well, if you’d like, I could teach him Japanese," the doctor offered. "I’m not fluent, but I do have a vocabulary list from his tribe. It might be a more efficient way to help him learn."

Yamamura was taken aback—it turned out the doctor wasn’t just a drunk! Like finding gold in a mountain of junk, this offer seemed like a stroke of luck. The stress of their limited communication had been wearing on him, so this was a chance he couldn’t pass up.

"I used to do a lot of fieldwork in the Amazon River basin," the doctor explained. "It was partly for studying immunity and infectious diseases. I don’t know exactly where Hiro lived, but I’d like to learn more about his tribe’s current situation."

"Having someone teach him the language would be incredibly helpful," Yamamura admitted.

"The only fee I’ll charge is one bottle of beer for each lesson," the doctor said, grinning.

Yamamura’s expression tightened. He hadn’t expected it to be free, but there was a world of difference between offering to pay out of his own will and being told upfront what to pay. Still, he didn’t want to lose this opportunity.

"Fine... one bottle of beer per lesson," Yamamura agreed, reluctantly.

"And make sure it’s a half liter bottle, not a can," the doctor added with a grin.

The word "heavy" flashed through Yamamura’s mind. "Why does it have to be a bottle and not a can?" he asked.

"That’s my policy," the doctor replied, smiling broadly. "Bottle only, please."

Just then, the doctor stood up, saying, "Ah, it’s done." He removed the IV drip, and Hirokuni let out a small groan, opening his eyes. When they took his temperature again, it had dropped to 37 degrees. "He might have a fever again, so here’s a suppository, just in case," the doctor said.

Rather than dragging Hirokuni to the back door, Yamamura brought his shoes to the entrance and led him out through the front. Hirokuni’s fever had gone down, but his body was still weak, and he was too exhausted to walk. Since the distance wasn’t too far, Yamamura carried him on his back.

The doctor had said, "He’s welcome to come by anytime," even if it was during work hours. Yamamura didn’t bother asking for clarification; he figured the kind of guy who drank beer at dawn would probably just say, "Sure, why not?"

As they headed home, the morning air was crisp and cool, with cars already starting to fill the streets. Passing by the park, even at this early hour, Yamamura could hear the buzzing of cicadas.

Hirokuni, riding on Yamamura’s back, shifted slightly and tightened his grip around Yamamura’s chest. Even though carrying the weight was tiring, the feeling of Hirokuni clinging to him with such effort wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Despite the short distance, carrying someone on his back took its toll on Yamamura’s legs. By the time they reached the apartment, he was breathing heavily. He laid Hirokuni down on the bed and helped him take off his shoes.

Yamamura set an alarm on his phone, then lay down on the tatami mat to catch a quick nap. Even a little rest was better than none at all. Exactly thirty minutes later, the alarm went off, and he dragged himself up to get ready for work. As he changed into his suit, he noticed his eyes were bloodshot. He tried to fix his hair in the mirror, feeling the weariness in his bones.

When he turned around, he saw Hirokuni watching him intently from the bed.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Yamamura asked, looking down at him.

Hirokuni didn’t reply, just continued to stare in silence.

"You... feeling good?" Yamamura asked.

Hirokuni tilted his head in confusion, not understanding the word "feeling."

"Your... body, is it okay?" Yamamura tried again.

There was no response, no change in Hirokuni's expression. Yamamura quickly gave up on trying to communicate. If he kept this up, he’d end up being late for work.

"I'm heading to work, but I'll come back around noon. There’s some food left for you," he said.

Hirokuni just stared at him, unblinking, not saying a word.

"Your fever's gone down, so you should be fine," Yamamura said, reaching out to touch Hirokuni’s forehead. As soon as his hand made contact, Hirokuni closed his eyes. When Yamamura pulled his hand back, Hirokuni opened his eyes again, staring at him intently. He didn't grab onto Yamamura’s clothes like he did at the clinic, but that gaze of his made Yamamura feel like he was being held in place.

"Are you... maybe lonely being by yourself?" Yamamura asked.

Hirokuni didn't respond.

"Well, I can’t just take the day off so easily. You'll have to manage on your own today," Yamamura said, leaving the room. As he locked the door, the door to the neighboring apartment creaked open. The old hag from next door, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts like some kind of scruffy tomboy, peered out. Yesterday, in his panic over Hirokuni's fever, Yamamura had reluctantly turned to her for help. Although she’d been a great help, he felt awkward now that they were face-to-face.

"G-Good morning. And thank you for all your help yesterday," he said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"It’s fine," she replied. "How's that boy doing?"

"Thanks to you, his fever's gone down."

"Glad to hear it. This is a good chance for you to finally buy a thermometer, don’t you think?"

With that, the old hag disappeared back into her apartment. It seemed like she had come out just to check on Hirokuni.

As Yamamura descended the stairs and stepped out onto the sidewalk, he noticed the sky, which had been clear when he returned from the clinic, was now filling with gray clouds. It looked like it might rain soon. As he glanced back toward his apartment, he saw that his window was open. He didn’t remember opening it. Hirokuni must have done it, but given how weak he’d been, Yamamura wondered how he'd managed. Concerned, Yamamura turned back and retraced his steps.

There, leaning his head on the window frame like a severed head, was Hirokuni. He stared down at Yamamura from the open window, watching him.

"Close the window and lie down on the bed. You’ll get your fever back up," Yamamura shouted up to him.

Hirokuni didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the words. He just kept looking at him, unmoving.

"I’m not gonna care if you get sick again!" Yamamura yelled before turning to leave once more.

He knew Hirokuni had a habit of opening windows whenever he could, probably because he hated the stale air. Sometimes he even cracked open the front door. But still, lying down would be more comfortable than sitting like that. He couldn’t understand what Hirokuni was thinking. Was he just trying to get some fresh air? There wasn’t much of a breeze anyway.

Then a thought struck Yamamura, and his feet came to a sudden halt. He stood there, hesitating for a moment, then turned around and headed back to his apartment. As he walked, he called his workplace on his cell phone, telling them a lie that his cold had relapsed and he needed to take the day off. He stopped by a convenience store to pick up a bento and some fruit before heading back home.

As he approached his apartment building, he could see his room on the second floor. Hirokuni was still there, leaning against the window, his head sticking out, staring down at Yamamura as he returned.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

At 7 PM, on his way back to the company from his sales route, an email arrived on Yamamura Hitoshi’s cell phone. It was from that quack doctor, Ochiai.

"Hiro-chan is at my place. On your way back, pick up two beers and come get him."

The light turned green, and Yamamura tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

"It was supposed to be one beer per lesson, wasn’t it? Damn quack," he muttered, stepping on the gas.

After catching a cold, Sakaki Hirokuni had seen Ochiai for treatment. Although he still had a slight fever the next day, he recovered in no more than three days. Just when Yamamura thought all was well, on the fourth day, Ochiai called his cell.

After asking about Hirokuni’s condition, Ochiai had said, “The clinic’s closed tomorrow. I don’t have any plans. Wouldn’t Hirokuni-kun like to come over to study some Japanese?”

Yamamura suspected Ochiai was more interested in hearing all sorts of stories from Hirokuni than teaching him Japanese, but since it was still a chance for language lessons, he decided to drop Hirokuni off at the clinic on his way to work.

Hirokuni hated hospitals and white coats, always scrunching his face like he’d just eaten a sour plum at the smell of disinfectant. Yet, he seemed intrigued by the fact that Ochiai could speak his tribal language. When Ochiai greeted him in it, Hirokuni responded in words Yamamura couldn’t understand.

The first day Yamamura dropped him off, Hirokuni returned to their apartment at the same time as Yamamura. It seemed he had spent the whole day at Ochiai’s house. From then on, Hirokuni started visiting Ochiai’s place daily, even staying in the main house while Ochiai saw patients. And every evening, without fail, Yamamura would get a text from Ochiai: “Come pick up Hiro-chan. Don’t forget the beer.”

Stopping by the local liquor store, Yamamura picked up two bottles of beer and headed to the clinic. It annoyed him to be delivering beer every day, but thanks to Ochiai, Hirokuni’s vocabulary had expanded dramatically in less than three weeks.

"Hiro-chan gets bored easily, but maybe it’s because he’s young—he learns fast."

Where Yamamura once had to communicate in broken, carefully selected words, now Hirokuni seemed to understand even normal conversation. He could even carry out instructions precisely. Though Hirokuni was getting better at understanding, speaking still seemed difficult for him. He could respond to what he heard, but rarely, if ever, initiated conversations.

Ochiai wasn’t just teaching him language. One night, Yamamura had been surprised to see Hirokuni trying to eat a bento with a fork. It seemed Ochiai was teaching him not just words but also manners for everyday life. Hirokuni was gradually becoming more “civilized.”

"Hey, sensei," Yamamura called out as he slid open the creaky door to the main house. He knew Ochiai rarely responded, but it was still polite to call out. The door to the living quarters was rarely locked, and today was no exception.

Hirokuni’s scruffy sneakers were placed in a haphazard V-shape by the entrance. At first, Hirokuni had mimicked Yamamura by throwing his shoes against the door after taking them off, but thanks to Ochiai, he’d learned to leave them somewhat neatly. Well, not exactly neat—he still couldn’t get them properly lined up...

As Yamamura walked down the hall, he heard an impatient voice from the living room, “Where’s that beer? Hurry, hurry!”

Ochiai, who had already set out glasses and a bottle opener, grinned and narrowed his eyes as Yamamura handed him the beer. “Good work, good work,” he said with a smile, popping the cap off and pouring the beer into a glass.

Sitting next to Ochiai, Hirokuni was staring intently at the bubbles fizzing and popping in the glass. Despite Ochiai drinking beer daily and the bubbles being nothing special, Hirokuni always watched them with bated breath.

"There’s some for you too, Hiro-chan," Ochiai said.

Though Ochiai wore a white coat during his consultations, he was always dressed in tracksuits at home, making him look no different from an old man clutching a betting slip at the racetrack.

“There’s one for you too, Yamamura-kun,” Ochiai said.

“What, I count as part of the group now?” Yamamura grumbled.

“Not going to drink?”

“…No, I’ll drink,” Yamamura replied, reluctantly.

“Oh, by the way, there’s leftover soup, salad, and rice in the kitchen. Feel free to eat if you want. Hiro-chan and I already ate,” Ochiai said.

Familiar with the routine by now, Yamamura headed into the kitchen as though it were his own home. On the small dining table, a single set of bowls and soup dishes were left upside down on a tray. Whenever Hirokuni came to Ochiai’s clinic, likely due to Yamamura’s late return, he would invariably be treated to dinner. Yamamura often ended up eating the leftovers. He transferred some soup from the pot into a bowl, microwaved it, served himself some rice, and carried the tray into the living room.

There, Ochiai was already sitting with Hirokuni, sipping beer and snacking on yesterday’s leftovers: dried squid and chocolate.

“Hey, sensei, this stuff… it tastes bad,” Yamamura muttered, bringing a spoonful of the somewhat greenish soup to his mouth.

“Really? I thought it was delicious. Right, Hiro-chan?” Ochiai turned to Hirokuni.

Hirokuni nodded earnestly, though his face remained expressionless. It made Yamamura wonder if the kid even knew what he was agreeing to.

“It’s got this weird grassy taste. What did you put in it?” Yamamura asked, frowning.

“Oh, that’s because it has aojiru (green vegetable juice) in it,” Ochiai replied casually.

Yamamura nearly spit out the soup. “What the hell?! Why would you put that in there?”

“It’s packed with nutrients. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it, you know?” Ochiai said, completely unbothered.

Yamamura clamped his mouth shut and continued drinking the soup in silence. It tasted awful, sure, but it wasn’t completely inedible. Still, he couldn’t understand the taste buds of the two people sitting in front of him. After his mother left, Yamamura had never cooked for himself since his mother left. Ochiai, on the other hand, had been living alone for about ten years, ever since his wife passed away twenty years ago and his son moved out. He cooked all his meals himself now.

Most of what he made was simple, and often had a peculiar taste. At first, Yamamura didn't complain, figuring he should be grateful for the leftovers he was given. But as the bizarre flavors became a regular occurrence, he began to voice his dissatisfaction in small doses. Now, he no longer held back, bluntly telling Ochiai, "This tastes awful," right to his face. Ochiai didn't seem the least bit bothered, simply replying, "Really? I think it's tasty," before cheerfully returning to his habit of making more revolting dishes.

“Hey, sensei, it’s a pain to keep buying beer every day. I’ll just order a case and have it delivered.”

“Sure, sounds good. I’ll just let you know when we’re out, right, Hirokuni-kun?” Ochiai said, smiling.

“Don’t drink more than one bottle a day, got it!” Yamamura snapped.

In the end, Yamamura finished the unpleasant soup and the salad on the side. He brought the dirty dishes to the sink and washed them. Even if the food was bad, it was still free, so he felt that much was the least he could do. After cleaning up, he returned to the living room and finished the rest of his beer.

Ochiai’s house didn’t have air conditioning. Instead, they opened the windows and used a screen door, relying on a fan to circulate air. This was because Hirokuni was extremely sensitive to cold air. It had been Ochiai who first noticed Hirokuni’s discomfort. He had advised Yamamura, “It might be hot, but you should avoid using the air conditioner at the apartment too. Otherwise, Hiro-chan might catch another cold.”

So, Yamamura hadn’t used the air conditioner in his apartment even once that year. Maybe because of that, he felt the summer heat much more intensely than usual.

Across from him, Hirokuni curled up in the corner of the room, away from the low table. He could have been drunk or just sleepy. Either way, his behavior was as free-spirited as always.

The faint chime of a wind bell echoed through the quiet room. Since the house was set a bit back from the road, it was peaceful inside. Ochiai had once explained to Yamamura, “You know, Hiro-chan’s guardian spirit, the jaguar spirit, says that TVs and radios are ‘boxes of evil spirits.’” This had been shortly after Hirokuni started visiting the clinic.

Yamamura had no idea why Hirokuni considered them to be “evil.” Ochiai had apparently tried explaining what TVs and radios really were, but Hirokuni’s opinion didn’t change. So, they simply refrained from turning on any noisy devices in his presence.

“Today, too, Hiro-chan was saying he wants to go home,” Ochiai murmured. “He understands he can’t go by car—that he needs a plane. I’ve explained the situation over there, but it seems hard for him to grasp. Well, I guess he doesn’t fully understand what money is yet.”

“The Amazon… It’s even hotter there than here, right?” Yamamura asked.

“Oh, much hotter,” Ochiai replied.

“I can’t understand why he’d want to go back,” Yamamura said, shaking his head.

Ochiai chuckled. “Haha, right?”

"It’s definitely hot there, but I like it," Ochiai said thoughtfully. "Even though the sun sets the same way, the scenery is different over there. When you’re in a place like that, you start to understand why people worship the sun as a god.”

Yamamura reached for the pack of cigarettes lying on the low table and lit one. Ochiai asked, “Can I have one too?” So, Yamamura passed him a cigarette.

“If I could be reborn, I’d want to try being an ancestral Indigenous person,” Ochiai mused.

“Uh-huh,” Yamamura replied absentmindedly.

“Do you mean eating with your hands like Hiro does?” he asked sarcastically.

“That’s not what I mean,” Ochiai chuckled. “I think a life without the concept of time sounds amazing, don’t you? And you know, in Hiro-chan’s tribe, there’s no word for ‘hurry.’ That’s how laid-back their way of life is. They don’t have the idea of ‘saving’ things either, so they don’t own unnecessary stuff. They don’t waste anything. There’s no money, so there’s no rich or poor. No schools, so no dropouts. They don’t own much and don’t ponder over why they’re living. They just live to survive. I think it’d be nice to live like that.”

“Well, why don’t you take Hiro and go to the Amazon then?” Yamamura shot back, his words tinged with irony.

Ochiai laughed. “No way. I’m too deep into civilization now. Plus, I hate bugs. And the jungle… it’s not a paradise anymore. I get why Hiro-chan’s father dragged him back by force. The beautiful, ancestral Indigenous Peoples are probably destined for extinction.”

“Extinction or whatever, it’s got nothing to do with us,” Yamamura said, blowing out a puff of smoke.

“Oh, it does. You just don’t see it,” Ochiai muttered cryptically.

“For example, beer cans are made of aluminum, right? Do you know where that aluminum is imported from, Yamamura-kun?”

“…No idea,” Yamamura shrugged.

“Brazil is one of the world’s largest producers of aluminum. And guess where the aluminum comes from—the Amazon jungle. They chased out the Indigenous Peoples who lived there to set up aluminum mines. Refining aluminum takes a huge amount of electricity. To supply that power, they built dams, and again, the Indigenous Peoples living in those areas were driven out. Japanese companies funded the construction of those dams, you know? Japan imports most of the aluminum. Many Indigenous Peoples who protested against the mining and dam construction were killed. When I visited the Amazon a long time ago, an intellectual Indigenous person said to me, ‘You people steal our homeland and kill our people for your empty cans.’”

Ochiai paused and muttered “Oops,” pressing his cigarette into the ashtray as the ash began to fall.

“That must’ve been more than ten years ago. It was a shock, really. Though, there’s a contradiction in all of it. Most of the aluminum is used by industrial companies, and even in Brazil’s capital, they still use aluminum cans. But still, if there are people suffering because of things we throw away, I thought maybe I could at least switch to beer in bottles.”

Yamamura stayed silent, unable to respond or even give a nod. To be honest, he didn’t know what to say to something like that.

“It’s not just aluminum that’s making it hard for Hiro-chan to live back there. The deforestation of the jungle is a big part of it too. The jungle’s soil isn’t fertile, so it’s not suitable for farming. But they create pastures and farms anyway, the soil depletes, and once it’s beyond recovery, the land turns to desert. And the crops they grow—corn and soybeans—most of it’s for export. What do they even turn it into? Food, animal feed, biofuel? Maybe we’re eating tofu while we’re taking away Hiro-chan’s home.”

Yamamura was starting to feel increasingly annoyed by the conversation.

"What's the point of all that? You saying I shouldn’t drink beer in cans or eat tofu?" Yamamura snapped.

"You're taking it too far," Ochiai laughed. "Well, if I had to put it simply, I guess it's that our comfort comes at the expense of people like Hiro-chan and his tribe, yeah."

The effects of the alcohol were beginning to wear off. Yamamura moved closer to Hirokuni and shook his shoulder.

"Hey, wake up. We're going home."

Hirokuni rubbed his sleepy eyes and, with a big yawn, sluggishly stood up.

"See ya, sensei."

"Good night. Oh, right. Just so you know, I’ll be out tomorrow. I already told Hiro-chan."

With Ochiai’s voice seeing them off, they left the house. The clock had already passed 11 PM. Hirokuni, who usually walked quickly, was dragging his feet tonight. Maybe he was still drunk.

"Come on, walk faster," Yamamura urged, but Hirokuni didn’t pick up the pace at all. Eventually, he stopped and looked up at the sky.

"Quit messing around."

Yamamura grabbed Hirokuni’s hand and tugged him along. Hirokuni followed obediently, without resisting. As they hurried down the road, Yamamura suddenly recalled Ochiai’s words about Hirokuni’s tribe not having a word for "hurry." Without a concept of time, there’d be no need to rush, and no such thing as being late, either. He briefly imagined what it would be like if his company allowed people to come and go as they pleased, but quickly stopped himself—it was a ridiculous thought.

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