Today, we are in Suva, Fiji, on the wet south-eastern coast of Viti Levu. The person you will follow is a composite: one ordinary office worker, assembled from the routines, places, and small facts documented by local reporting, official sources, and research on the city. She is not a tour guide, and this is not a holiday itinerary. It is simply a weekday, made of rain, bus windows, work that needs doing, food bought close to the station, and the particular way a capital carries its older stories underneath the newer ones. Before seven, the roof is already ticking. Suva rain does not always arrive as a dramatic storm. Sometimes it is a steady, patient sound, soft enough to let you sleep through the first few minutes of it. You wake in a room that feels slightly cooler than the air outside. The window is open a finger's width. Somewhere beyond the houses, a bus gives a low, reluctant growl. You have a day to get through. So you sit up, listen to the rain, and reach for the phone.