For years, I had fantasies that Brad would knock on my door and that when I opened it, he would be standing there holding Jackson’s record collection and say something like, “I’ve heard music coming from your apartment. I thought you might like these.” I’d also thought about breaking into his apartment and putting the record back.
By now, though, I’m pretty sure I got away with it. Because Brad would have said something if he’d noticed it was missing. He probably didn’t know the record even existed.
I’m not proud of what I did. Actually, I’m ashamed. The worst part is that I don’t know what’s stopping me from giving it back. Brad still lives across the hall. I could knock on his door and tell him that I was sorting through my records and came across one that belonged to Jackson, who had
