Chapter 5
I kept the proposed agreement on my kitchen table beneath a folded dish towel, as if hiding it could make it less real.
The paper had Grant Mercer’s name printed at the bottom and several paragraphs about “voluntary cooperation” between residents and the neighborhood redevelopment committee. The words were polite. That was what frightened me. Nothing in them sounded like a threat until I remembered the four men standing around me on the sidewalk, their shoes angled inward, their voices never rising because they didn’t need to.
My apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator clicking on. I took the paper out, read the first page again, and reached for the trash.
A knock came before I could tear it.
I didn’t answer right away. Through the peephole, I saw Mina standing in the hallway with her hands visible at her sides. She wore the same dark jacket from the sidewalk, though her hair was tied back now. She looked at the door, not at the peephole, as if she understood that I needed the extra second.
“It’s Mina,” she said. “I brought the number for the tenant clinic. I can leave it here if you’d rather.”
I opened the door only as far as the chain allowed.
“You shouldn’t come up without calling first,” I said.
She nodded immediately. “Okay.”
“And don’t call after eight at night. If I don’t answer, please don’t keep trying.”
“Okay,” she said again. No explanation. No wounded expression. “Would you like me to come back another day?”
The question unsettled me more than an argument would have. I looked down the hall, then at the folded paper in my hand.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s an answer too.”
She took a small card from her pocket and placed it on the floor between us. “The clinic is open weekdays. You can contact them yourself. I won’t give them your name.”
I stared at the card. “Did you bring a camera?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to ask before photographing or copying anything.” She paused. “If you want me to help preserve the agreement, I can. But it’s your document, and you decide what happens to it.”
The chain made a faint metallic sound when I closed the door. I stood there with the card in my hand until her footsteps disappeared down the stairs.
The next morning, I went to the copy shop two blocks away by myself.
I made three copies of every page. One set went into an envelope behind the flour canister. Another went into the lining of an old winter coat I rarely wore. I put the original in a folder with my lease and utility bills, then carried the folder to the building’s small storage room and placed it inside a box labeled WINTER CLOTHES.
It wasn’t a perfect plan. I knew that. But for the first time, the choice belonged to me.
When I returned upstairs, Mrs. Alvarez from 3B was waiting near the mailboxes. She held a grocery bag against her hip and kept her voice low.
“Those men came here too,” she said.
I looked at her.
“Last week. They asked about my lease and said the building would be better if certain residents cooperated.” Her mouth tightened. “They went to 2A after me. Then 4C.”
“Did they give you a paper?”
She glanced toward the stairwell. “Something like one.”
My fingers tightened around my keys.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She gave me a tired look. “Tell them what? They were very courteous.”
That afternoon, I bought a cheap spiral notebook from the corner store. On the first page, I wrote the date, the time, and the address of the building. Then I wrote everything I could remember: the men on the sidewalk, the questions they asked, the agreement, Mrs. Alvarez’s account, and Mina’s visit.
I did not write that Mina had looked relieved when I said I would keep the documents.
That felt private.
But beneath the facts, I wrote one more sentence.
May you like
I am keeping a record because I am allowed to know what is happening to me.
I underlined it once, then closed the notebook.
