CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Four years ago …
It was actually kind of surprising how quickly the landlord of my apartment—a Mr. Flint, an elderly amage man who didn’t seem to give a damn about anything other than rent—replaced the front door of my apartment after I told him about it. He didn’t even ask me how I broke it. He just called up a local hardware store and had the door replaced within the day. I suppose even a cheap apartment like this needed doors if Mr. Flint planned on attracting more renters to it. Unfortunately, he still wouldn’t get a door with a peephole.
As for the guy who held me up, he didn’t die, as I thought. Instead, he got up and ran away, apparently afraid that I would hand him over to the Enforcers or something like that. I didn’t even try to follow him, though, because
