Okonkwo had told her not to — one at a time, hand on the rail, stopping twice.

By the top she was sweating and her right side had begun the specific deep ache that meant she had used muscles that were currently held together with sutures and optimism.

She got her key out.

She let herself in.

And she stopped in her own front hall, because the apartment had been set for a dinner party.

Not a party.

A dinner.