M.

You take a card from the pocket you didn't know you had. Cream stock. A pen that has been here the whole time.

You write: Come to the light on the point. The door is never locked, only stuck. I am writing this where you are not yet.

You sign it M. It comes out the way you make it when you are in a hurry and want to be seen not hurrying.

You freeze it. It takes all night. Frost grows in over the words in the blue light of the chute.

At 3:10 it comes down. You catch it before it breaks. Frozen into the block beside it, a slip you have read before, in a hand that is not quite yours: Nobody here can place anything. That is the job.

You are whoever.