It was several years ago, back when we lived in 250 square feet. One evening there was a knock at the apartment door and my husband peered out the peep hole, then opened it up.
There stood Mr. Peters from two doors down, ragged, frail, and weathered. We had passed him on the stairs for almost a year, smiling and making small talk here and there. Several flights up in a no-elevator building seemed almost impossible for his stooped frame.
He dove right in feebly, without a smile. “Hi there. I was just seeing if you all would come down here to my apartment for just a minute and take a look at a couple things.”
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