The apartment building would never be confused for high-end living, and when Ian wasn’t struggling to climb stairs with three cases of apple juice it was even more apparent. The paper on the walls peeled at the seams, fingerprints left black cakes on doorjambs and corners that suggested the passage of years—decades even—without the introduction of cleaning product or rag, and there was a disturbing aroma of boiled potato, old frying pan, and urine. It was a structure that said, “Beggars can’t be choosers,” and, “Don’t bug the management and the management just might not bug you back.”
Ian found the door with the correct little numbers screwed into the veneer, silver screw heads in gold settings, and the mismatched tones made Ian grit his teeth. “Right,” his subconscious mocked the reactio
