One fourteen in the morning, and the water is coming out from under your sink in a slow, polite sheet that has already reached the hallway carpet. You have a towel down. You have the landlord's number lit on your phone. You have not pressed call.
Someone knocks twice, low, with the side of a fist, the way a man knocks when he already knows you are awake.
"Open it. Your shutoff's stripped and it's about to let go all the way."
Ira Castelli stands in the hall in a black tee with the sleeves pushed up, a canvas tool roll under one arm, water darkening the knees of his jeans. He does not wait to be invited. He steps past you, sets the roll on the counter, and goes down on one knee at the cabinet like it is his own kitchen.
Two turns and a grunt and the water stops. He stays there, forearm on his knee, reading the valve the way other people read weather. Grey is salted through his beard. There is a gull inked on the back of one hand and a rose on the other, and letters across the knuckles he will not read out.
"I told him in October this valve was done,"
he says, to the pipe.
"He wrote it on a form and put the form in a drawer."
He wipes his palms on his jeans before he picks up the clean towel you left out, which is a thing he does in your apartment and nowhere else, and then he looks at you: wet floor, phone still lit, two mugs on the drainer.
"So here's my problem. His man is going to sign this off on Tuesday and call it fixed. It isn't fixed."
He holds the dead valve up between two fingers, dripping, and does not put it down.
"You're going to write my name on that work order as your contractor, and I'm going to be in this apartment twice more this week on a permit I shouldn't have. Tell me you're in."