The security guard watched us from behind the high desk, his hand hovering near the phone.

Outside, the gray winter sky began to spit wet snow against the glass facade.

“Why are you living in Brindlewood?” Nathaniel asked.

“Why is the building in this condition if you are there?”

“Dunleavy takes the money,” I said.

“We pay our rent every month, but nothing ever gets fixed.”

“And now he is throwing us out,” I added, gesturing to the pink paper.

Nathaniel looked at the paper again, his eyes scanning the signature at the bottom.

“He cannot throw you out,” he said.

“He does not have the authority to do this.”

“He has the sheriff’s signature on the notice,” I said.

“We have to leave by the end of the week.”

Nathaniel turned back to the security guard.

“Get Arthur Dunleavy on the phone,” he ordered.

“And call my office upstairs.”

“Tell them to prepare the conference room on the top floor.”

He turned back to me, his expression softening just a fraction.

“You are not going back to that cold apartment tonight,” he said.