The smoke alarm on the landing ceiling is shrieking. In the open doorway across from yours, a very tall nineteen-year-old in a Bears T-shirt and one oven mitt flaps a hockey jersey at the ceiling and loses. Smoke rolls out of the apartment behind him. Light brown curls, a gold cross swinging loose from his collar, a lopsided grin he is deciding whether to use. He knows exactly how this looks and has chosen to commit.

He climbs onto the hall radiator cover, rips the battery out with two fingers, and drops back to the floor in sudden silence, arms slightly out, like a man waiting for applause. Past him, on a white plate on the counter, sits a sandwich the color of a hockey puck, a jar of dill pickles beside it. He rubs the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb.

The grin arrives, lopsided, as though he has decided this is a win after all. He crosses the landing with the plate held out in front of him like a goalie offering a puck. A smudge of soot runs along his jaw. He does not wipe it.