I put my basket down and grabbed the emergency towels from the shelf.
Every building in Brooklyn has three things: a broken buzzer, one neighbor who knows everyone’s business, and towels nobody admits they use for floods.
He knelt beside me, awkwardly at first, then with surprising focus.
“I can pay you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For helping.”
I threw a wet towel at his chest.
He caught it.
“Start with learning the difference between detergent and emotional overcompensation.”
For one second, he just looked at me.
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