He was in his late fifties, gray mustache, thermal hoodie under a work jacket, the expression of someone who had seen enough people in some version of crisis to know not to ask more than necessary. He hauled his kit up the walkway while I stood in the doorway barefoot in an old college sweatshirt and leggings, my hair still tangled from sleeping on the couch.
“Long night?” he asked.
Instead of answering, I held up my phone.
He read the text. His eyebrows went up. Then he let out a low whistle that was somehow sympathetic without being theatrical.
“Well,” he said, “that’s one way to find out you need new locks.”
It was the closest thing to humor I could have tolerated, and somehow it steadied me.