I pulled into the gravel lot behind my building just as the streetlights hummed on.

Dry oak leaves scraped across the pavement.

I parked near the rusted dumpster and grabbed my purse.

The wooden stairs to my floor always creaked, but that day a man was already sitting on the concrete steps leading up to my porch.

Gregory stood up and brushed off his gray slacks.

He was holding a white bakery box tied with red string.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.