Dapper even at this hour in a European suit, silk tie, and pocket square, Anton grabs my bag and accompanies me inside. He communicates with his doormen, porters, valets, and security using earpieces. They look like well-dressed Secret Service agents, and are barely distinguishable from the residents, which is by design. Behind us, a valet is already moving the Porsche to a secure, climate-controlled parking lot underneath the building. Below our feet, a security team watches live footage of the grounds on a wall of monitors. Two guard stations sit at either end of the driveway. The Valmont is a fortress, which means my family is safe and protected, but we’re also prisoners.

Locked in step, Anton and I cross the marble lobby. Inside the elevator, I pull out a pack of Marlboros I’d stopped to buy at a bodega. “Smoke?” I ask Anton.

“Ah.” He shakes his head. “I’d love one, my dear, but I’m on the clock.”

“Fine. But here, take the pack. I bought extra.”

Once upon a time when I was twelve, Anton caught me smoking. He never told anyone, but over the years, we’ve developed a ritual: I offer him a cigarette, he politely declines, and I give him the pack. Residents and staff may coexist, but we don’t fraternize, so it’s our small moment of connection; and for me, a small act of rebellion. It would drive my parents nuts if they knew that I share a secret, however inconsequential, with a Valmont employee.

As Anton rides with me up to the fifth floor, I scrutinize his face, trying to figure out if he’s heard about Billy. His expression is blank, and his eyes, inky black pools, reveal nothing.

Anton is fifty-seven; he’s been with the Valmont forty-two years. His son Joey is twenty-four. During high school, he sorted packages for his father. Briefly, Nate and Joey were friends, and occasionally, Joey would stop by to play video games. When Anton found out, he went ballistic. High-end doorman positions are impossible to come by. They’re preserved in families for decades, handed down from father to son, uncle to nephew. Joey’s behavior was foolish. He not only jeopardized his own job, he also put his father’s career on the line.

“School okay?” Anton asks. “How’s Arabic coming?”

“Ana murie.”

“Which means what?”

“That I suck, basically. Dumbest move I ever made, taking this class.” I speak fluent French and enough Spanish to find the ladies’ room. When I finish my PhD, I plan to work overseas—assuming my family doesn’t rope me into their foundation. Either way, I want to be prepared. In the next fifty years, Arabic is projected to be one of the most commonly spoken global languages. “It’s harder than I thought, so I’m stupid and arrogant.”