“Do you want me to file a report with administration?” Tom asked, turning to look at me.

“No,” I said, reaching into my pocket to touch the cold brass keys.

“I will handle it.”

The rain was falling in heavy sheets when I finally left the hospital at five.

By the time I reached my apartment building, the streetlights were casting long yellow reflections across the wet asphalt.

In the small front vestibule, Marcus, our regular postal carrier, was shoving a handful of advertisements into the brass mailboxes.

His blue uniform shirt was damp at the shoulders.