The Neighbor Asked Me to Carry the Stroller Up

The elevator in my building had been broken for eleven days. I knew because I had counted each one, and because the management company had taped the same apologetic notice to the wall every morning, each sheet slightly yellower than the last. I came home from work at six forty, still smelling like the fryer from the restaurant, my calves aching from the walk between the train station and the building. My apartment was on the sixth floor. Number 614. I had signed the lease in March because it was cheap and close to the station, and because I did not have enough savings to be picky. That evening, Marcus Bellamy was standing near the mailboxes with his hands in his pockets. I knew him the way you know anyone in a building like ours. He lived on the eighth floor, in the corner unit, the one with the balcony that faced the sunset. He drove a dark car with a dealership plate. He wore shirts pressed at a dry cleaner. Sometimes he held the door for me when I was carrying groceries. Once, when the basement laundry flooded, he had helped me drag my wet clothes out of the machine before they could stain. He was a good neighbor, on paper. "Hey, Lark," he said. "You're just the person I needed." I stopped near the stairs and shifted my bag higher on my shoulder. "Hi." "I have a situation." He glanced toward the front doors. The lobby was empty, which was unusual for a weekday evening. The woman from 412 who usually sorted her mail at the counter was not there. The delivery man who always played music from his phone was not there either. Just Marcus, the polished floor, and the broken elevator with its yellow tape. "My sister dropped off the baby," he said. "I was supposed to watch her for a few hours. But I have a package at the courier station two blocks over, and they close at seven. I can't leave her alone." He gestured behind him. The stroller was parked against the wall, facing away from the light. It was a navy blue model with a canopy pulled up. A thin blanket covered the seat, tucked in around the edges. "She's asleep," Marcus said. "Completely out. I don't want to wake her. Can you do me a favor? Just take her up to my place. The door is unlocked. I'll be back in fifteen minutes." I looked at the stroller. I looked at his face. He was not sweating. That was the first thing I noticed, before I noticed anything else. The lobby was hot; the air conditioning had been out since the weekend. I could feel sweat along my own hairline. But Marcus looked comfortable, as if he had been standing in shade for hours. "Lark?" he said. "Please. I wouldn't ask if I had another option." I opened my mouth to say yes. That was when the first line appeared. Do not touch the stroller. It was not a voice. It was not a whisper. It was a sentence, floating in the air between me and the navy blue canopy, like the subtitles I turned on when I could not follow the dialogue in a movie. The letters were white with a faint edge of gray. They hung steady for two seconds, then faded. I blinked. I thought I was tired. Marcus said, "It's just up the stairs. You're going up anyway." Another line appeared. The blanket is not covering a living child. My hands, which had been reaching for the handle, stopped. "Lark?" I looked at the blanket. It was tucked too tightly. That was the second thing. If a child were breathing under there, the fabric would rise and fall. It did not move. It did not stir. It lay flat as a folded sheet. The third line came. He wants your fingerprints on it. Marcus's smile did not change, but something in his eyes narrowed, just a little, like a camera adjusting focus. He said my name again. His voice was patient. It was the voice of a man who had never had to ask twice for anything. I took a step back. "I can't," I said. The words came out before I had finished deciding to say them. I heard them land in the empty lobby. I heard Marcus stop breathing for half a second. "You can't?" "I have to be somewhere," I said. The lie was weak. I was wearing my work clothes, and my work clothes smelled like food, and my bag was heavy with the tired weight of a full shift. Anyone could see I was going home. Marcus saw it. He tilted his head. "It will take you three minutes," he said. "Three minutes is enough to be late." The stroller did not move. The blanket did not move. The words did not return, but I had already read them. I could not unread them. Marcus's smile thinned. "That's not like you, Lark." "That's a strange thing to say," I said. "You don't really know me." He looked at me for a long moment. Then he laughed, a small polite sound, and stepped back from the stroller. "Fair enough. I'll take her." He picked up the handle with one hand. He did it easily, without checking the blanket, without adjusting the strap. He walked past me toward the stairs, and the wheels made a soft rhythmic click on the tile. He did not look back. I stood in the lobby for another minute, alone. The second line repeated itself in my head. The blanket is not covering a living child. I told myself I had imagined it. I told myself I was heat-sick. I told myself it was none of my business. That night, I could not sleep. At two fifteen, I got up and checked my phone. I had three messages from an unknown number. The first said: The building has cameras. The second said: You did the right thing. The third said nothing. It was just a photograph of the lobby, taken from the angle of the ceiling camera, and in the photograph Marcus was standing in front of the stroller, and the stroller was facing the stairs, and I was walking away. The photograph had been taken at six forty-three. I had not told anyone my name that day.