The building Adrian had mentioned to Ethan was, as it turned out, excellent.
Two floors of a 1930s conversion in a neighborhood that had good coffee shops and
reasonable structural integrity, according to Ethan, who had researched the building’s
history before I had even confirmed we were looking at it. It had good light, a proper
workspace, enough room for Ethan to have a corner that was his, and a kitchen that did
not feel like a hotel kitchen, which had become my primary criterion for anything I was
going to live in for the foreseeable future.
We signed the lease on a Thursday.
Ethan was at school. I called to tell him when he got home and he said: “Good. I already
measured the corner for the model table. I’ll need a second shelf unit.” He paused. “Did
you check the load-beari
