The door opens behind me, and there’s a man wearing nothing but a white tank top and basketball shorts and slippers. He has a thick mustache and thinning black hair, and he’s glaring at me.

“You going to come inside?” he asks.

“Hi, I’m Valentino. I’m a new tenant.”

The man points at my suitcases. “I can tell.”

“I’m waiting for the landlord.”

He nods but doesn’t leave. As if he’s waiting for me to come in.

“Are you Frankie?”

He nods again.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

He reluctantly shakes my hand. “Are you moving in or what?”

I was warned that not every New Yorker will be nice to me, but maybe Frankie is tired since it’s pretty late. I grab my suitcases and enter the building. It’s a warm night, but once I’m inside, I understand why Frankie is dressed like he’s grabbing the morning paper in Arizona. It’s so hot in here it’s as if I walked straight into the pizza oven from next door. The hallway is narrow, painted this mustard yellow that is not fun on the eyes, but I respect the choice. There are steel mailboxes built into the wall with packages on the floor waiting to be picked up, and a trash bin overflowing with junk mail including Death-Cast flyers. I take it many people in this building aren’t registered for the End Day calls. I’m personally not either, because my parents are total skeptics, but that paranoia is another inheritance of theirs I need to abandon.

Frankie pauses while going up the first flight of stairs. “Where’s the other one?”

“The other one?”

“Your twin.”

“Oh, she’s flying in tomorrow morning.”

Frankie continues ascending. “Make sure if any other big boxes arrive you handle them in a timely fashion. Carrying all your deliveries up these stairs was bad on my back.”

“I’m so sorry.” I had to ship some things early, like an air mattress, blankets, towels, pots, and pans. Though I’m guessing the biggest culprit for his back pain were the five boxes of clothes and shoes and accessories, which are just as essential as making sure I have somewhere to sleep until my proper mattress can arrive on Tuesday. “Is the elevator broken?”

“It’s been broken since my father ran this place,” Frankie says.