Elias stood before them, his stomach growling a rhythmic protest. He was a man of simple needs, but tonight, his soul craved the clean, sharp bite of vinegar-soaked rice and the buttery give of raw fish.

Some things are worth the walk. He turned away from the hum of the supermarket lights and headed toward 4th Street, chasing the scent of vinegar and the promise of a sharp knife.

But as his fingers brushed the container, he remembered the shop on 4th Street.

That was the other place you could buy sushi—the sanctuary. In the supermarket, you bought a product. At Sato’s, you bought a moment. You paid for the temperature of the rice, which should be like a warm breath, and the sting of real wasabi that cleared your head like a cold wind.

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed a low, synthetic tune. At seven p.m., the deli section was a battlefield of discounted rotisserie chickens and lonely plastic wedges of cheddar. But in the corner, under a sign that glowed with a soft, sea-foam green, sat the clear plastic trays of the "Daily Catch."