KEEGAN HAD JUST got his keys out, when the door of the apartment next to his opened a crack. Mr. Soto squinted out at him. The man’s plump, hairless head hovered above the brass chain that kept the door from opening farther. Keegan sighed and squeezed his keys in his fist.

The neighbor’s door dipped shut, the chain unlatched, and Soto stepped out on the walkway, rubbing his hands on his trouser legs. He was a tiny man whose round bald head seemed too large for his body—a bobblehead doll. A retired county librarian, Soto had already been living in 203 a decade when Keegan moved in next door three years ago.

“Mr. Keegan,” the little man said breathlessly, as if he’d run there from somewhere distant. “Mr. Keegan, you’re keeping a dog in your apartment.” Soto had a habit of staring at Keegan’s right shoulder any time the two of them talked, which was infrequently.

“It’s my mom’s dog,” Keegan said.

As if on cue, a scratching started up on the other side of Keegan’s door. Nora had heard his voice.

“It’s temporary,” Keegan said. “I’m trying to find her a place.”

“Our rental agreement is very clear on pets, Mr. Keegan,” Soto said. It was easy to imagine the man, years ago, roaming the basement library stacks, shushing anyone with a heartbeat. “I’m afraid this won’t do at all,” Mr. Soto went on. He paused a moment and seemed to be inspecting the stitching on the shoulder of Keegan’s jacket. “I don’t want to have to call the landlord.”

This, Keegan knew, was a lie. Soto called the landlord at every opportunity. It was a hobby he’d picked up in retirement, the way another man might do crosswords or plant tea roses.

“Look, Mr. Soto, I’ll have her out of here in three minutes,” Keegan assured him. “I just need to pick up some clothes.” He slipped the key into the lock of 205 and could feel the tiny man’s eyes glaring at him. “Three minutes,” Keegan said. “Go set your egg timer.”

NEAR MIDNIGHT, KEEGAN stood in his mother’s back garden. The teacup he held was Royal Dalton, from his mother’s best set. The liquor in it was the usual Jameson. The one ice cube he’d dropped in a minute ago had already melted away.

The lights of the valley below spread out in a sprawling grid of streets: the bright slash of Sunset Boulevard; the line of ruby brake lights moving along North Highland; and, further east, the 101. Blinking red beacons topped radio towers, and the dark obelisk of city hall, miniaturized, was barely visible way out on the southeast side. It was a view he never tired of. He should have come up here more often while his mother was still alive. Why had he not?