IT STARTS TO rain as we climb out of the car. Huge, scattered drops plunk to the ground as Jasper and I lift our hoods and follow the little blue dot on his shielded phone through several more rights and lefts, deeper still into the maze of narrow Cambridge streets. The stormy blue-black sky makes it seem much later than four p.m.

When we finally turn onto Gullbright Lane, the sky opens and it begins to pour. Jasper tucks his phone into his jeans, trying to protect it from the rain as we dash down the street looking for number 323. People have newspapers over their heads, jackets pulled up as they sprint for cover. I’m glad for the rain, though. Now everyone is running from something.

Finally we spot 323, about halfway down the block. A narrow, run-down, pale-blue Victorian divided—judging from the buzzers—into five apartments, the lower windows covered from inside in some kind of brown paper. We hover under the short awning as I dig out Kendall’s note with the code.

I’m shaky as I step forward to the panel of buzzers stacked up in a row, each with a small number taped alongside. I try not to think about what will happen. Maybe I will ring all those buzzers in the order Kendall said, and everyone in the building will burst angrily to the door. And who could they be? My fingers are trembling as I punch the first button and then the next.

I hold my breath until I am done. Then I wait for the door to spring open, for some terrible possibility I haven’t even considered. But nothing happens. The door doesn’t open. No one jumps out. There is only silence.

“Try it again,” Jasper says, which surprises me. I’d have thought he’d be happy for any excuse to turn around.

And so I press the buttons again in the order Kendall’s note instructed. This time I hold each number for longer. My finger is still on the last button when the door finally opens. But only a crack. Whoever is inside has left the chain across.

“What?” A male voice, deep and aggravated. On the upside, at least he didn’t come charging out the door.

“Um, we’re here to see Joseph Conrad,” I say.

It feels reckless, like I’m taping a target to our backs. And yet—a bigger part of me is pushing onward.

“What?” the voice barks.

“Joseph Conrad?” I offer again.

The door snaps shut without a reply. There are voices inside, followed by other sounds: cabinets opening and closing, footsteps. A beat later the door opens again, this time a little wider and without the chain. But more like someone forgot to be sure that it was all the way closed than an actual invitation.