The kitchen faucet had been leaking for three days.

I had sent two maintenance requests through the building portal and gotten nothing back except an automated “we’ll look into it.” By Sunday afternoon the steady drip had turned into a thin stream that pooled under the sink and soaked the cabinet floor. I was on my knees with a towel and a bucket when the hard knock came at the front door.

I stood up, wiped my hands on my shorts, and opened it.

Harlan Reed stood in the hallway.

My landlord was a tall man in his early fifties, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of calm, assessing...