This was filling up Will’s time with conversation, when he’d come to be quick.

This wasn’t easy.

This was sabotage.

It didn’t stop with the food.

Barely a half hour after his first guests left, there was a knock at the door, and this time, it was drink.

Homemade drink, to be specific, made by a middle-aged man named Benny who lived on the second floor and had a small home-brew operation. He brought Will a growler of something called American Wheat Ale, along with a special glass for Will to try it in. Food eventually got involved again, because Benny had heard that Marian made a potato casserole, and would Will mind if he had a few bites? Ten minutes later Benny was sitting in Donny’s brown recliner with a plate of cheesy bacon potatoes and then the husband of Mrs. Salas arrived, and wouldn’t you know he’d like a few of those mantecaditos? But he also had something to drop off, a handheld vacuum cleaner of Donny’s that he’d repaired, and sorry for Will’s loss, a real shame for everyone, but this handheld was now as good as new, and he’d leave it right there on the coffee table if that was all right.

Will thought he caught a break in the late afternoon, a lull that lasted almost a whole hour, but when there was another soft tap on the door he had to bite his cheek so he wouldn’t shout in frustration. For once, there was no one on the threshold, but there were three houseplants, one with a note tucked between its fat, bright green leaves. Dear Dr. Sterling, it read, in a tiny, neat cursive. I took these from your uncle’s apartment after he passed and have looked after them since. I have written instruction cards for each one, and taped them to the pots. I hope they will thrive in your care. In sympathy, Emily Goodnight.

A third-string player, obviously, since she could’ve taken up a ton of his time delivering those instructions with the same kind of robust, detail-driven attack all the other residents had arrived with. He’d never had a houseplant in his life, and also took ludicrous offense at the fact that Donny had. He was already thinking about people at work he could hand them off to, but before he’d gotten the last one inside he heard the sound of footsteps in the stairwell.

He felt like he was on the longest shift of his life.

It was the man who’d scolded him in the basement the other day, short and surprisingly fast-moving for his age as he descended the final steps carrying a cardboard box that looked a little unsteady in his wiry arms.