From my pocket, I pulled out the small roll of bills I had kept in the bottom of my childhood desk drawer for nine years.

The forty-two dollars, two twenties and two singles, were soft and thin from being folded for so long.

Peter brushed the sawdust from the lock mechanism and handed me two identical brass keys.

“That will be forty-two dollars,” he said.

I handed him the exact bills, and he slid them into his shirt pocket without counting them.

“You are all set,” he said, picking up his toolbox.

He walked down the carpeted corridor toward the elevator, leaving me alone in the doorway.