Sunday morning came in grey.
Maya woke before sunrise. The room was cold. She'd left the window open again. The radiator hissed but didn't produce heat. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and stared at the ceiling.
The crack. The river.
She thought about Leo's hands. The way they held the photograph. The way they moved when he drew. The way they'd touched hers when he handed back the sketchbook.
She sat up and rubbed her face.
Her phone was on the floor. She picked it up. No messages. She typed: Are you awake?
A minute passed. Then two.
Yes, he wrote. Couldn't sleep.
Me neither.
What are you thinking about?
My father.
A long pause.
Do you want to talk about it?
She looked at the screen. Did she? She'd never talked about her father. Not really. Not to anyone.
He left when I was twelve, she wrote. No note. No goodbye. Just gone one morning. My mother cried for a year. Then she stopped crying and started working. Two jobs. Three. She didn't have time for me after that.
I'm sorry.
I'm not telling you for sorry. I'm telling you because you showed me your mother's photograph.
Another pause.
Thank you, he wrote.
She put the phone down.
---
At 9 AM, she went to the roof.
The garden was wet with dew. The tomatoes were still standing. The basil had put out three new leaves. She touched one gently.
The building across the alley. Third floor. The window was closed today. She couldn't see inside.
She sat on the milk crate and pulled out her sketchbook. She opened to the drawing of Leo's hands. The one she'd done last night. It wasn't finished. The shading was wrong. The proportions were slightly off.
She picked up her pencil and started working.
She was still drawing when the roof door creaked.
Leo walked out. He was holding two paper cups.
"You're up early," he said.
"You too."
He handed her a cup. The coffee was hot. It burned her tongue a little. She didn't care.
He sat on the edge of the roof, a few feet away. The same spot.
"You're drawing my hands," he said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because they're interesting."
He almost smiled. "They're just hands."
"No. They're hands that draw." She held up the sketchbook. "See? The knuckles are different. The way you hold a pencil changes the shape."
He looked at the drawing. His face was unreadable. "You're good."
"I'm learning."
"Aren't we all."
They drank their coffee. The city woke up below them. Cars honked. A siren wailed in the distance. A woman yelled at someone from a window.
"I've been thinking about the tenant association," Maya said. "We need more signatures."
"How many do you have?"
"Six. The Kims won't sign. The Parkers are leaving. That leaves four maybes."
"Talk to them again."
"I have. They're scared."
Leo set down his cup. "Fear doesn't go away because you ask nicely. You have to give them something to hope for."
"Like what?"
"Like a win. Even a small one."
Maya thought about that. A small win. What could that be?
"The heat," she said. "The radiator in my room barely works. Mr. Chen said half the building has the same problem. If we could get the landlord to fix it –"
"That's something." Leo nodded. "Document it. Take photos. Send a letter. Vanessa can help."
"She said to document everything."
"Then document."
Maya pulled out her phone and made a note. Radiator heat – 4C, 3A, 2B, 1A.
"Small win," she said.
"Small win."
---
At noon, she went to Mrs. Patterson's apartment.
The old woman's things were still there. Her clothes in the closet. Her dishes in the cabinet. Her rosary on the wall. The game show was still on the television – Mrs. Patterson had left it running when she went to the hospital. Maya turned it off.
She sat at the kitchen table and looked at the tenant list.
Six signatures. She needed more.
She picked up her phone and called Vanessa.
The lawyer answered on the second ring. "Maya. What's up?"
"The heat. Half the building has broken radiators. Can we use that?"
"Absolutely. That's a habitability issue. The landlord is required by law to provide adequate heat. Document the temperature in each unit. Take photos. Send a certified letter."
"How long does he have to respond?"
"Thirty days. If he doesn't, you can take him to housing court."
Maya wrote that down. "What about the eviction?"
"The building hasn't sold yet. That's your window. Use it."
They talked for another ten minutes. Vanessa gave her a list of things to document. Temperature. Water pressure. Pest sightings. Broken locks. Everything.
Maya hung up and started making a checklist.
---
At 3 PM, she knocked on every door.
She asked each tenant about their radiators. Mr. Delgado's didn't work at all. Jasmine's worked only in the morning. Marco's worked but made a banging sound. The Kims said theirs was fine. The Parkers didn't answer.
She wrote everything down.
By 5 PM, she had a list. Seven units. Four with heat problems. Three with water pressure issues. Two with broken locks.
She took photos. The cracked windows. The peeling paint. The missing lightbulbs in the stairwell.
Then she typed up a letter. To Franklin Holdings: We, the undersigned tenants, request immediate repair of the following habitability issues...
She printed three copies. One for the landlord. One for Vanessa. One for herself.
---
At 7 PM, she went to the roof.
The sun was setting. The sky was orange and purple. The garden looked peaceful in the fading light.
She sat on the milk crate and pulled out her phone.
I sent the letter, she texted Leo.
Good.
Vanessa said it might take thirty days.
That's how the system works. Slow.
I hate slow.
I know. But slow is better than nothing.
She looked at the building across the alley. The third floor window was still closed.
Can you see me? she asked.
From the basement? No. No windows, remember.
I remember.
But I can hear the water tank. You just turned the spigot.
She looked at the water tank. The painted eye. She hadn't turned the spigot.
That wasn't me, she typed.
A pause.
Then who was it?
She stood up. She walked to the water tank. The spigot was dripping. A small stream of water ran onto the tar paper.
Someone had been up here. Recently.
She looked around. The roof was empty. The door was closed. The brick was in its usual place.
Probably Mr. Chen, she wrote. He checks the pipes.
Probably.
But she didn't believe it.