I left the chicken simmering on the stove and stepped out onto the balcony. I wasn't sure if I had heard the front door buzzer or not, but there was a tall young man—my daughter's apartment-mate was tall, she had said—standing outside the building, fiddling with his keys. Maybe he had gotten locked out. I propped open the apartment door with a mop and ran barefoot down the three flights of stairs. So many things to adjust to in New York City: locks, shoes.