Zack whistled for Ziggy, then jogged after Mr. Alvarez. “I don’t think you’re giving Mrs. Alvarez enough credit. I started talking to her about craft beer the other day. Next thing I knew, she was googling home brewing.”

“Atta boy.” Mr. Alvarez clapped him on the back. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re like the son I never had?”

They walked together until they reached the staircase leading to the second floor. Zack pretended to fiddle with his keys until Mr. Alvarez made it up the first flight. When he was no longer visible, Zack approached apartment 112C and slid his key into the lock. Opening the door required a combination of pulling the handle and jamming his foot against the bottom of the frame. He’d done it so many times, it was second nature. He shoved the door open a second later, ignoring the worrisome cracking sound it made. Ziggy bounded past him into the apartment. Before Zack had even closed the door behind them, Ziggy had curled up in Zack’s spot on the gray, squishy couch by the far wall.

“Welcome home, boy,” Zack said, tossing his keys onto a small table that was overflowing with junk. He swore he was going to clear it off one of these days, but he never did. He had no real reason to. He seldom entertained, and he ate his meals sitting on the couch. What little furniture he did have only kept him from throwing his possessions directly onto the ground. Because that, he’d decided, was too classless even for him.

Zack pulled his shoes off and left them by the door. The carpet was a dingy taupe color that seemed to cultivate dirt by sheer force of will. He flipped on a light switch, and the ceiling fan hummed with life. The single bulb in its glass globe cast waxen light on the room. He yanked his jacket off next and nearly knocked a framed print of Dali’s The Hallucinogenic Toreador off the wall. A few other posters dotted the room—one for Call of Duty, another for Lord of the Rings, and one for Fight Club that Zack felt completed his “single guy living alone” starter kit.

The framed art had been a gift from his older sister. She’d called it an attempt to “class up the joint.” The idea still made Zack laugh years later.

“You,” he pointed at his dog, “are the only good thing about this place.”

Ziggy cocked his head to the side and let his long, pink tongue loll out of his mouth.

“Exactly.” He made his way over to the kitchen. A four-burner stove, a toaster, a coffeepot, and an olive-green refrigerator from the sixties were all that filled the cramped space. Yellowed wallpaper printed with what might have been roses covered the walls. Zack checked Ziggy’s food and water bowls and then turned to the fridge. It was making a disconcerting whining noise, and when Zack pulled it open, he was hit by a blast of icy air.