The locksmith, a quiet man named Peter, arrived at noon with a heavy metal toolbox that clinked with every step he took.

He stood in the open doorway of my apartment, examining the standard brass lock that the building manager had installed before I signed the lease.

“You want something sturdier than this,” Peter said, tapping the cylinder with the back of his screwdriver.

“A double-cylinder deadbolt,” I said, “the kind that requires a key from both sides.”

He nodded, kneeled on the threshold, and began to unscrew the strike plate from the doorframe.

I watched the brass shavings fall onto the hardwood floor as his drill bit sunk into the solid wood.