The dumpster was on the opposite side of the building—down the hall, a forty-five-degree turn past the main entrance, just outside the door of the common room.
I was halfway there when I saw him—maintenance, or so I thought. He wore a gray jumpsuit and one of those plastic ID badges that looked laminated by hand. He was crouched near the radiator, turning a wrench that wasn’t catching on anything.
For a second I thought he might say hello, but he didn’t even glance up. Just kept moving the wrench a quarter turn, then back again. His face stayed perfectly calm—too calm. Not bored, exactly. Blank. He didn’t blink much.
From one of the apartments came the muffled crash of a TV turned too loud. Another joined in somewhere above, both playing different stations so the voices tangled together like a fight no one was winning.
The hallway smelled faintly of old carpet and something burned a long time ago. I looked toward the laundry alcove—two heavy machines stacked neatly in their corner. In over two years, I’d never once heard them run. Not once. Same with the so-called common room across from the mailboxes. The lights were always on, the furniture always perfectly straight, but I’d never seen anyone inside.
After dumping the trash into the dumpster, I made my way back inside. I was almost past the maintenance man when I noticed the folded paper sticking from his back pocket. White, creased down the middle, marked with a familiar red circle.
For a second, my brain didn’t catch it. Then it did—too late. I turned back, ready to ask something I hadn’t decided yet.
But the hallway was empty.
No footsteps. No door closing. Just the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, flickering like they were pretending to be alive.
I stood there for a long minute, listening for the sound of his wrench.
Nothing.