Lion rolls his eyes in a way that makes him look even younger than he actually is. “I’m kidding. Such a mini Jacques, I swear. Why are you here? Did you suddenly miss your favorite uncle-cousin?”

I shrug. “Just, y’know, checking in.”

“Right. I’m happy to chitchat, but my services aren’t free, nephew,” he says. He points to the stack of blue-arrowed cardboard boxes behind him, clearly indicating for me to help him.

Another older doorman in a similar vest arrives, headphones in, and trades a fist bump with Lion. There’s a hint of a tattoo across his wrinkled knuckles.

“Cover the desk for a minute, will ya?” Lion instructs. “I just got some uptown help for these boxes.” He grabs the first half, leaving the second for me, and we start from the second floor up to the thirty-eighth, dropping the small packages here and there. I easily fall into the role of assistant, tilting packages and padded yellow envelopes against doors. The true definition of residential comfort is apparently never touching your own mailbox.

“How’s life at that fancy school of yours?” Lion asks.

As we work, I catch Lion up on Donielle Kempf and my awful interview and how I’m pretty sure my chances of getting into Columbia are over.

“And on top of everything else I was just blackmailed into taking this girl to a party. . . .”

He laughs with his entire body just like he used to when watching old episodes of The Boondocks in our living room.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“How?”

I tell him about Corinne. “She’s just really . . . something.” I find myself laughing again, thinking about her “ethical porn.” “She’s definitely unlike anyone else at that school. And she’s got this super overbearing mother who’s a Columbia dean and—”

“Whoa, hang on,” he says, interrupting me with a furious headshake. “Her mom’s a Columbia dean?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Well, there you go! The solution to all your problems, nephew.”

He nods at me as if expecting me to understand what he’s getting at, which I don’t. Lion eventually stops nodding in favor of a sharp sigh.

“All right: let me tell you a story. There’s this lady on the fifteenth floor here. International real estate money. She lives here two weeks every other month and is, like, fully racist,” he explains. “Expects you to drop a pile of packages and sprint to hold the door for her and still gets annoyed at having to put up with you being the one to do it. She’s on the building’s board too, which means she can get you fired for no reason if you catch her in a foul enough mood.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That sucks.”