Put the key in the door. It turns easily. The air in here is stale, but the place is spotless. Window shades drawn tight. It’s a two-bedroom job. I feel nothing for it.

I do a quick check of the apartment, gun drawn but held low. Single mattress on the floor of the larger bedroom. Check the bathroom, suitcase in hand. Close the door.

Drop an object in a ziplock bag. Stand on the toilet, gently remove the screen to the vent. Carefully set the object down within. Replace the metal screen. Hop down. Exit bathroom.

“Is this safe neighborhood?” calls Iveta.

Back in the main area. I shrug and make a so-so gesture. “Depends on your definition of safe.”

Iveta drops her bag. “What is this place?” Opens the refrigerator, which is empty, clean-ish, and not plugged in.

“Used to live here.”

“When?”

“Awhile back.”

“Live alone?”

“No.”

Iveta stares at me for a bit. Nods, leaves it at that.

I consider my plan. I consider the wisdom of leaving her alone here. That aspect of the whole thing is deeply flawed. But I decide it’s the best I can do.

May God protect her.

Iveta reading my mind. “So, Mr. Decimal. What happens now?” she says. Like that.

Me, I’m standing there with the briefcase, pig-sweating in the Kevlar vest.

It’s not her mouth, her expression. Something about her posture. Says we could call a time out. Maybe, just perhaps, discover comfort, quiet, a spot to rest, if only for a finite period. Within each other.

But no. To my eternal dismay, I hear myself: “Now what happens is I go straighten this out. You stay put. Sleep if you have to, but double-lock the door and keep your gun in sight. Don’t open the blinds.”

Iveta is saying something but I miss it as I close the door behind me.