At 5:02 a.m., my reclusive neighbor hammered on my door and whispered, “Don’t go to work today—by noon, you’ll understand,” then vanished like he’d just broken every rule keeping me alive

past me, scanning the hallway behind my shoulder as if he expected someone else to be there. When he looked back at me, something in his face softened for half a second. Regret, maybe. Or pity. Then it was gone.

“Promise me,” he said. “Promise you won’t go to Henning and Cole today.”

“How do you know where I work?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line.

I continue reading …