He stepped directly between me and the front door, positioning himself, deliberately, between me and the only exit, and I understood the choreography of it immediately: I was not meant to be able to leave.

He did not hold up a police badge.

He did not carry a notice from the city, an eviction order, anything official or legitimate.

He simply reached into his jacket, and drew out a document, and tossed it onto the mahogany dining table in front of me, where it slid to a stop, and he waited, with the patience of a man who believes he holds all the cards, for me to pick it up.

This was the person my sister had texted from the basement.