I walked into the bedroom. It was aggressively pink, Mrs. Roper’s constant pleas for romance come to life. French provincial styles dominated the space with all the cottage-chic furniture and matching bureau and bed set, the pink carpet and pink print curtains that matched the comforter, the pink-ruffled table-side lamp. Two Robert Furber prints, one for each of their birth months, flanked the bed, and the floor-length mirror seen in Season 3’s “Larry’s Bride” stood by the doorway. It was all there. Even the bathroom was set up according to Season 3’s “Stanley’s Hotline,” where Stanley eavesdropped through the sink pipe on the conversations upstairs.

The caseworkers had also added a kitchen to the Ropers’ apartment, a room that was never seen on-screen, using the trio’s kitchen upstairs for the layout—the apartments in the building seemed to mirror one another. It was like walking through a deleted scene.

Ray trailed behind me, occasionally pointing out things of interest. When we returned to the living room, completing the tour, he moved toward the front door and said, “And now, for the main event,” beckoning Brenda and me back outside. Once the three of us were crowded together once again on the Ropers’ outside stoop, he said, “A foot to the left of the door here,” and pressed the exterior wall to the left of the door.

A secret panel, covered by stucco, clicked open. Inside was a large lever. “Go ahead, try it. Just pull downward like this until you hear a click”—he demonstrated in the air—“and then let go.”

I did as instructed, and inside the wall I could hear gears grinding and wood heaving and protesting in a large movement, and something hummed from within. “Now, wait a full minute for the rotation to complete before opening the door again,” he said. The three of us stood quiet as the hum briefly reached a different pitch.

Then all noises ceased. Ray nodded his head. “It’s ready.”

Reverently, slowly, I opened the front door to Apartment 101 again. And there, before me, instead of the Ropers’ apartment, was electric-blue carpeting and walls, busy Hawaiian-print curtains, a plush shag rug on the floor, tacky paintings of half-naked hula girls on black velvet hanging on the walls. The apartment of Mr. Ralph Furley, bachelor-at-large.

Items were always moving around on the sets from episode to episode, which would be easy enough for me to accomplish as I saw fit, but Ray knew I was concerned about how to deal with the major renovations when the landlords changed hands in Season 4. Now one apartment could be substituted for another in seconds, eliminating the overhaul entirely. I had studied the schematics, and he had explained the theory of it to me, but it wasn’t until I was standing in front of it, observing its ingenuity, that I felt its kindness. He had done this for me. And for my money, yes—I could never quite forget that contract between employer and employee, lest I start believing all these faceless workers were my buddies—but when I turned to him after the demonstration, I saw the pride on his face. And something else, too, maybe a smile, one of those rare, pure expressions of joy that people witness only so many times in a life, the joy of making something and giving it away. “You can turn it back anytime,” Ray said. “In case you ever need to.” I understood what he meant—if I ever wanted to relive the Roper years if I was still living here that long to start living the series over again, it would be possible. I thanked him.