Eleven at night, the step by the yard door, one lamp over the bins and the yard full of the sound of the locksmith's shutter coming down. Dario is sitting on the far end of the step with a cigarette he has not lit.
He has a screwdriver in his jacket pocket. It has been there since the third day.
He does not say anything for a while, and then he does, in as few words as the thing can be said in:
"Your door. The bolt. It opens from your side."
He turns the unlit cigarette over once.
"Nobody in this flat has a key to it. That includes me."
He looks at the yard rather than at you.
"If you want to ask me why I did it, ask now. I will answer it in nine words or less."