At four o’clock I pulled into the gravel lot outside Lauren’s brick apartment building on Oak Street.

Her silver sedan was parked by the trash enclosure under a thin layer of gray highway dust.

I carried the first clear plastic bin up the narrow back stairwell and set it on the concrete landing outside apartment 2B.

The stairwell smelled of old carpet and fried onions from a kitchen on the first floor.

When I knocked on the wooden panel, the deadbolt turned slowly in its metal frame.

Lauren opened the door three inches with the safety chain still on.