Asking Herself

Production coordinators had a pretty miserable job. They not only had to manage schedules and budgets, but also deal with a mountain of miscellaneous tasks and shoulder pressure from every direction. The grumbling Gu Xue had overheard in the restroom that day was a snapshot of what production coordinators had to put up with.

That was with someone experienced and forceful like Mihara Chisa, too. Even when the staff were unhappy, they only dared whisper about it behind her back. Her domineering, unreasonable behavior made her unpopular, but it did have its advantages. If a production coordinator were in her shoes, with the episode directors all running amok, they'd need nerves of steel to keep from breaking under pressure from every direction.

So in this job, you either stuck it out or quit after a while.

Even those who managed to stick it out sometimes felt like they wanted to die. In some ways, they worked harder than the animators, and staying up all night was part of the job.

There were plenty of production coordinators like Mihara Chisa, driving around in the middle of the night to pick up and deliver animation papers.

Because time waited for no one.

Driving while exhausted was normal, too.

It was hardly news when a production coordinator collapsed on the road from exhaustion. There was even a special term for it.

If it was just the production coordinator who went down, they called it "eating pavement."

If the production coordinator went down along with the outsourced key animator or in-betweener, it was "the whole family gets wiped out."

It sounded absurd, but it captured the misery perfectly.

Mihara Chisa was wide awake now. Her situation wasn't the kind where the whole family had been wiped out. It was worse.

A strong gust scattered the animation papers everywhere, and the rain soaked every last one. All six cuts were ruined. Not a single sheet was usable.

Drawing on paper had plenty of advantages, but it had its drawbacks, too. The biggest was how easily the work could be damaged. And before it was scanned, there was no backup at all.

Just five minutes after leaving, Mihara Chisa knocked on the door again.

The man stood in the corridor, watching Mihara Chisa bow before him, looking utterly wretched. He listened calmly as she explained what had happened. He didn't get angry. Instead, he said, with a hint of concern, "Why don't you take a shower here first? You can change into some clean clothes. Wait a moment—I'll go wake my wife."

"Mr. Bo Wen, that's all right." Mihara Chisa lowered her head. Her expression was hidden, and her voice was very quiet.

"..." Mr. Bo Wen stopped just as he was turning away and gave a rueful smile. He understood what she meant, and said softly, "I usually have a good habit of keeping backups, but you were in such a hurry. I still remember the drawings, but I can't promise I'll be able to recreate them. When's the deadline?"

"Before midnight." Mihara Chisa's voice grew even quieter.

"..." Bo Wen looked troubled. "I've got two difficult action cuts I still need to finish, and I'm pressed for time on those, too. I..."

Mihara Chisa said nothing. She only bowed her head lower.

"How about this," Bo Wen sighed. "Once I finish those two action cuts, I'll get in touch with you. If you still haven't found anyone to draw them, I'll do everything I can to recreate them. I can't guarantee the quality... or even that I'll finish them. I can only promise I'll do my best. And you'll still need to find a key animator to clean up Kiyo-Nigen. There's simply too little time."

Mihara Chisa pressed her lips together and rasped, "Thank you."

A drop ran down her cheek and hit the floor, breaking apart. It was impossible to tell if it was rainwater or something else.

"You can change into some clean clothes here..." Bo Wen said softly, but she cut him off before he could finish.

"Thank you," Mihara Chisa rasped again. She suddenly straightened, spun around, and hurried away so quickly that the glistening drops at the corners of her eyes flew off.

"Wait! That talented artist at your company—the young woman you mentioned, wasn't she nearly done with her current work? You could..."

Bo Wen raised his voice slightly, trying to offer a solution, though he didn't seem very confident in it himself.

But Mihara Chisa could no longer hear a word. She rushed out the door without even taking an umbrella.

Outside,

the wind and rain were still raging. Mihara Chisa walked into the storm.

"Thanks, but no need. You don't have to go to all that trouble. I'll think about it. Please don't trouble anyone else."

Every word she had said echoed in her mind. The one she heard most often was the "You don't have to go to all that trouble" she had just used to turn down Bo Wen's offer to drive her back.

Mihara Chisa clenched both fists, her nails digging deep into her palms, but she seemed not to notice.

What had she been feeling when she said that? What right did she have to think everyone else was meddling? What right did she have to think she could handle everything alone?

How pathetic she must have looked, crying and pleading with people just now. And when she'd refused their help with such obvious impatience, had she ever considered that something like this might happen? How could she still have the nerve to ask for help?

She'd refused people's help on her own terms, then asked them for help on her own terms. Why had she acted that way in the first place?

She'd kept telling people not to trouble anyone else, but in the end, she was the one troubling them. So who was the one in the wrong?

What was wrong with her?

Mihara Chisa stood outside her car and asked herself that question. Then she sniffed hard and yanked open the door.

She sped toward the company at a pace that would have made anyone watching urge her to slow down.

The roar of the engine drowned out even the deafening downpour.

She made it back to the company safely.

Mihara Chisa got out of the car and ran back to her desk. She was covered in mud and soaked through, giving her colleagues still in the office quite a scare. But after a moment's hesitation, they exchanged glances and remembered what she was usually like. They chose to stay silent and didn't come over to ask what had happened.

Mihara Chisa couldn't spare a thought for them. She set her waterlogged, useless phone on the edge of her desk and began making calls from the office landline, relying on her memory.

Her voice was quiet, but many people heard what she said.

No one looked pleased at her misfortune. They were all adults; they weren't that insensitive. Many even looked sympathetic, though it was impossible to know how much of it was sincere.

She made several calls in a row, and got more or less the same answer each time. Some people had already gone to bed. Woken up, they yelled at her groggily, demanding to know if she owned a clock, if she ever checked the time, if she knew what time it was.

Mihara Chisa apologized, then made her request.

The answer was, "You've got to be kidding."

By the time she'd finished calling the last person she could remember, only one person had agreed to take on the unreasonable job. Not all of it—just one cut.

Six cuts, with less than twenty hours to go. It was practically impossible.

Mr. Bo Wen had only been trying to comfort her.

Mihara Chisa knew that full well. That was why she'd started making calls as soon as she got back.

But even taking on just one cut was more than most people were willing to do, because they were all in much the same situation as Mr. Bo Wen.

Mihara Chisa hung up. Soaked to the skin, she was freezing beneath the air conditioner. Her body began to tremble, and her head started to ache and spin.

She fought through the discomfort and stared down at the desk, racking her brain for anyone else who might take on the work. But there was no one.

At last, she raised her head and stared at the key animators' names on the schedule on her computer screen. An unusual flush spread across her face, and she clenched her left fist.