The holder snapped closed.

A truck pulled in at the far end, and a man climbed out with a mop handle over his shoulder.

Young, maybe thirty, in a company polo that still had the creases from the package.

He spotted me and raised a hand.

“Are you the lady with the window table?”

“That’s me.”

“They told me not to move the chair.” He squinted up at the third floor.

“Nobody told me why, though.”