Miwa pressed her gloved finger on the schedule posted to the corkboard. Her touch flattened the paper, making it easier to read.

Yup. Her schedule was still a mess.

This was what she got for being the only woman on staff, not including the custodians who were more often than not contracted out those days. Sighing, Miwa opened her pocket scheduler and jotted down the closing shifts she was subjected to for the next two weeks. Beside her, a coworker named Kohei squinted his eyes and made a che! sound in the depths of his throat.

“You and me, Ban-san. We’re taking on the platform all night next week.”

“At least I get to be on the platform.” That’s what Miwa told herself. Not that it really made her feel better. What good was it to work so hard to get this meager position? Because she should be grateful for it? Because she was a woman? If anything, working until last train was more dangerous than doing the midday shift. More than one drunk passenger made a pass on her after he was yanked out for being a perverted chikan.

Kohei laughed. “That’s the spirit. Jya, ikou ka?”

They still had ten minutes until the start of their shift, but there was much to do before they were formally on the clock. Miwa spent half that time in front of the office mirror making sure her navy blue uniform was crisp and clean. Her long hair was pulled back into a tight bun that made her scalp and neck sore most nights. (But what could she do, other than cut it?) Her shoes were buffed and shined. The white gloves that so many tourists whispered about were as impeccable as her freshly-brushed teeth. Every time Miwa considered her appearance in the mirror, she was taken back to her childhood, when she stared at station attendants with awe.

Twenty years later, she was finally living her dream job. Part time, anyway.

But it was far from glamorous. When she wasn’t dealing with unruly passengers, lost tourists, or people who didn’t know a bar of soap from their own asshole, she was subjected to the systematic sexism that placed the onus of being the best and going above and beyond every single male coworker entirely on her shoulders.

It had taken Miwa twice as long to achieve her position as it had Kohei, and he was mediocre compared to her. Competent, but mediocre. There was a reason he had the closing shift at their quiet neighborhood station. Miwa, on the other hand, could only dream of working her way up to mid-shift, or, gods bless her, morning shift. That’s where the real action was!

“Youshi,” she muttered, pumping herself up for a long night of watching trains come and go out of the subway station. “Densha taimu wa ima da ze!”

She did a little fist pump to further brainwash herself into thinking it was the most badass job in the world. Kohei laughed behind her, mimicking her erratic movements. The coworker who manned the ticket booth shook his head in disbelief.

The evening shift was understaffed. Only four employees were on hand at any moment. Granted, it was a one-line station with trains spaced 15 minutes apart and little foot traffic that late at night, but it was in Tokyo, and anything was liable to happen. Not just to their station, but the entire line, or perhaps their neighborhood of Amaya-koen. Miwa always thought it fitting that she might die in a neighborhood called Gate of Heaven’s Shrine. The Shinto shrine only half a kilometer away attracted parishioners and tourists during the day, but hardly a soul at night. The only passengers boarding and deboarding at Amaya-jinja-guchi Station were locals, and most of them were elderly.

One employee in the kiosk. One in the back answering phones and doing the bulk of the paperwork (and covering anyone who went on break.) Two on the platform, representing both directions.

Some women may have found it quaint. Miwa wanted to scream.

Instead of shouting into the subway’s abyss, however, she took her position at the bottom of the stairs to Exit 1 and swung her arms to get the blood flowing. Within two minutes, she received the first signal of a train coming in, right on time.

For five hours she performed the same tasks over and over again. She watched passengers deboard the train and pointed to the exit nearest her. Once the platform was cleared, she blew her whistle and signaled the train driver that it was safe to leave. When the tracks were empty, she kept her eye on the passengers waiting for the next train. 99% of them sat or stood with their earbuds in and eyes glued to their phones. Only a few spared her a second glance, most of them probably wondering if she was really a woman.

Come on! It’s Tokyo. Women can be station attendants here! Maybe not in Bumtits, Japan, but there was a reason she didn’t live there.

Shit, she could barely afford Tokyo… and she lived on the outskirts where she could get a cramped studio with her paltry part-time salary…

A train came in. Miwa snapped out of her thoughts and raised her arm, whistle between her teeth and breath blowing through metal and plastic. The five passengers on the platform lined up behind yellow lines while the automatic announcer implored them to do anything but cross the yellow line.

Only two passengers deboarded: a weary businessman on his way home, and a young woman Miwa had never seen before.

Miwa didn’t know the names of most of the regulars, but she recognized a few faces. The businessman usually came in late, either apologizing to his wife on the phone for having to work so late or stinking of beer. Sometimes he nodded to Miwa on his way up Exit 1. Most of the time, however, he ignored her like most people did.

The woman was a complete unknown. And based on the way she wavered on her feet with glassy eyes and a slightly rictus mouth, Miwa had no idea what to make of her.

While the young female passenger stared at the vending machine on the platform, Miwa waved the train down the tracks. The driver waved back at her as he pulled out of the station. Just one of hundreds of well-oiled transportation machines around their corner of Tokyo.

Kohei radioed her. “You seeing this woman here?”

Miwa pretended to stare at the giant rectangular ads hanging on the station wall, when in reality she kept one careful eye on the woman. “Hai. I see her.”

“Keep an eye on her, would you? She’s acting strange on your end. Radio me if you need assistance.”

Miwa turned in time to catch the woman disappearing behind a pillar.

Station attendants were trained for anything and everything. People sick on trains. Perverts getting kicked off and handed over to security. Children running loose and getting dangerous with the tracks. Natural disasters. Emotional ones, like the woman tripping over her own feet.

She was either on drugs or, worse, suicidal.

Miwa never had a jumper on her watch. There was one three weeks ago during the afternoon, only two hours before her shift started, and the mess was so big she spent most of her hours writing late notices for employees and students who couldn’t get to their destinations in time because the tunnels were closed. But she had missed the inciting incident and the subsequent investigation by the police.

Jumpers were the #1 thing to look out for in her line of work, above assaulters and terrorists. Jumpers were not only gruesome, but they bogged down the workings of the delicate train system, and nothing upset customers like someone’s suicide inconveniencing a whole city.

This woman didn’t really jump, though. Instead, she stood at the edge of the platform, wobbling back and forth as if she were about to tumble down into the tracks at any moment.

Miwa had to act fast. If she could do it without alerting Kohei, even better.

“Ma’am?” She put one careful hand on the woman’s arm. “Are you okay? Do you need assistance?”

The woman stared at Miwa as if she spoke a different language. Maybe she wasn’t Japanese. Korean? Chinese? Filipino? American tourist?

“Maybe you should…”

Dead weight collapsed against Miwa as the woman went down toward the tracks and attempted to take the station attendant with her.