Unnoticed by either Rona or Si, they were no longer alone in the office of the Word on the Street: a young sandy-haired man had crept quietly up the dark stairs, hoping not to be noticed by Si, and especially not by Rona, because he was a long way behind on an article he should have been a long way ahead of by now.

He was Phillip, the writer whose editorial credentials had been so thoroughly shot down by Rona in her argument with Si. He heard the entire argument: the desk he chose to sit at was behind a partition, some kind of idea of Si's to shelter people who were finding their work a little overwhelming, to place them in isolation from the rest of the office so that - theoretically - they could concentrate more fully. The staff called it "Quarantine."

Phillip was angry at Rona's criticism of him, and especially of his writing - but it was anger derived mainly from the fact that he knew she was right. His writing was atrocious - but he just couldn't do anything about it. He'd tried. All he knew was that he enjoyed doing it anyway, so he kept persevering with it.

Nonetheless, it hurt him to hear his weaknesses pointed out by another person - even if she didn't know he was there. Perhaps that hurt more. Mind you, Rona had never failed to point out the errors in his work in the past, right to his face; and not always with tact.

But even though he knew first-hand what a straight-talker she was, Phillip was enormously surprised when Rona let forth with her outburst against Si. He knew everything she said was right: it had been the elephant in the room. Phillip didn't much like Rona, it was true - but he recognised that for all her faults she at least sheltered him and the other writers from Si.

It suddenly terrified him to think that she might not be around to do that for much longer: what else could Si do but get rid of her? Phillip listened hard, leaning right against the partition, not moving in case he should miss a single nuance of Si's response.

"There's no need to raise your voice, Rona" Si said, drawing each word out of his mouth slowly and carefully like a child pulling a toy on a string. "We're both adults, and I don't appreciate you speaking so rudely to me. I am your superior here, let's not forget."

"'Superior'!" Rona laughed, "Christ, Si, it's not the army."

"Perhaps not literally, no - but all the same, we are a team, and it's up to you and me both to act like commanding officer for our 'troops'. It's just fortunate that nobody was here to witness your little display of temper just now -"

"I don't need witnesses, Si. I just need you to get the message."

"Rona, please don't interrupt me when I'm speaking! Now, because nobody was here to see this, I'm willing to forget about it. But I need you to promise you can work under me."

"'Promise'?" Rona exclaimed, echoing Si again. "Fucking hell, Si, I've been working under you since the day I got here, and I just can't fucking take it any more! Didn't you listen to a word I said? It's not just my problem! It's you! I just . . ." Rona suddenly stopped speaking. Phillip was tempted to peer around the corner of the partition, but he held back. When Rona started speaking again he could have sworn, if he didn't know Rona better, that there was a quiver in her voice, that it was all she could do to speak a few short words without losing composure altogether. "I just can't work in these conditions any more" she said.

"Okay" said Si, sounding stern but concerned. "Are you sure? Is that your final decision?"
When Rona left the office, she was surprised to find Phillip sitting there, apparently working on his article. He glanced up at her and smiled half-heartedly: he didn't even know what message he wanted the smile to convey. She didn't express any emotion: she just broke step for the briefest of moments and then continued her way down the stairs and out, out onto the street below.