I spend a few days working on Ricky. The little dog is nervous and territorial. Imagine his owner’s surprise when, the first time we cross paths by the drugstore two streets over, his dog silently yanks the leash in my direction. I act like I don’t notice, with my headphones on. I try it again, with an unzipped hoodie over a T-shirt with the Assassin’s Creed logo, a symbol in the form of a rounded-edge triangle that we insiders recognize. Personally, I think it looks like a staple remover.

The third time we run into each other I’m carrying a thick plastic reusable grocery bag. It’s full of normal everyday items; healthy, wholesome, inoffensive. The following times, I catch his eye and give him a subtle nod. Then a smile. The time after that, I venture a throaty “hi.” I’m setting the scene for a few weeks from now, just in case the guy looks outside at the wrong moment. I want him to feel one thing only if he sees me walking in the alley or playing with his dog in the backlot: a little pang of pleasure.

I stop to pet the dog, and his owner is amazed at his animal’s positive reaction. Great job, Ricky. You’ll be spared.

The inside of Fiset’s apartment looks like a crack house. Or at least how I picture a crack house, one of those depressing places we see in the movies. The other word that comes to mind is shithole. I figure since he’s been locked up for five years, the reflex of rinsing his plate has fallen by the wayside. Though it’s not small, the place feels sombre and stifling. An unfinished renovation. They ran out of steam after pulling off the drywall. You can see the wiring and the plumbing running through the walls, hanging between two-by-fours. I’ll have to watch my movements. The filthy carpet is intact. I couldn’t tell you what colour it was if you held my hand against a burning coal.

Three rooms: bedroom, living room, and kitchen. The only door they bothered hanging inside the apartment is for the bathroom. I make sure no one is hiding in there. Aside from the mould, not a living thing. There’s no mirror. Not even a shelf. Bottles of shampoo, shower gel, and shaving cream congregate on the rim of the tub, or the acrylic floor of the shower. A brown towel is hanging on a hook. Another is lying on the ground as a bath mat.

The furniture is a mismatched collection of wood and melamine, donations and sidewalk finds. Nothing wrong with that — he’s resourceful — but I doubt he’s taken precautions against bedbugs. I won’t sit down.