The drive home should have been ten minutes; but the route he took was closer to half an hour, as it avoided driving through town. If he didn’t drive through town, there was no risk of running into people he didn’t want to talk to. More importantly, he didn’t risk running into the people he did want to talk to. Be a team player. He couldn’t muster real resentment toward Oliver. John wasn’t a team player, not anymore. For almost six months, he had been coming and going from home to work like a train on a track, stopping to buy food now and then, but not much else. He spoke only when necessary; avoided eye contact. He was startled when people spoke to him, whether they were coworkers saying hello, or strangers asking the time. He made conversation, but he was getting better at speaking while walking away. He was always polite, while also making it clear he had somewhere to be—made obvious, when necessary, by suddenly turning in the opposite direction. Sometimes he felt like he was fading away, and it was jarring, and disappointing, to be reminded that he could still be seen.

He pulled into the lot of his apartment complex, a two-story building not really meant for long-term tenants. There was a light in the window of the manager’s office: he had tried for a month to track the open hours, then given up, concluding that there was no pattern.

He grabbed an envelope from the glove compartment and headed toward the door. He knocked, and there was no response, though inside he could hear sounds of movement. He knocked again, and this time the door opened partially: an old woman with the skin of a lifelong smoker peered out at him. “Hey, Delia.” John smiled; she didn’t smile back. “Rent check.” John handed an envelope to her. “I know it’s late. I came by yesterday, but no one was here.”

“Was it during business hours?” Delia peered into the envelope carefully as though suspicious of what might be inside.

“The lights were off, so …”

“Then it wasn’t during business hours.” Delia bared her teeth, but it wasn’t really a smile. “I saw you hung up a plant,” she said abruptly.

“Oh yeah.” John peered over his shoulder toward his apartment, as though he might be able to see it from where they stood. “It’s nice to take care of something, right?” John tried to smile again but quickly gave up, engulfed in a vacuum of judgment that allowed for no levity. “That’s allowed, right? To have a plant?”

“Yes, you can have a plant.” Delia took a step back inside and looked poised to close the door. “People don’t usually settle in here, that’s all. Usually there is a house, then a wife, and then the plant.”