I carried my elderly neighbor down nine flights during a fire, and two days later, a man showed up at my door and said, “You did it on purpose. You’re a disgrace.”I’m 36, a single dad to my 12-year-old son, Nick. It’s just been us since his mom died three years ago.Our ninth-floor apartment is small and loud with pipes, and way too quiet without her. The elevator groans, and the hallway always smells like burnt toast.Next door lives Mrs. Lawrence. Seventies, white hair, wheelchair, retired English teacher. Soft voice, sharp memory. She corrects my texts, and I actually say “thank you.”

For Nick, she became “Grandma L” long before he said it out loud. She bakes him pies before big tests and made him rewrite an entire essay over “their” and “they’re.” When I work late, she reads with him so he doesn’t feel alone.That Tuesday started normally. Spaghetti night. Nick’s favorite because it’s cheap and hard for me to ruin. He sat at the table pretending he was on a cooking show.”More Parmesan for you, sir?” he said, flicking cheese everywhere.”That’s enough, Chef. We already have an overflow of cheese here.”He smirked and started telling me about a math problem he’d solved.Then the fire alarm went off.At first, I waited for it to stop. We get false alarms weekly. But this time it turned into one long, angry scream. Then I smelled it—real smoke, bitter and thick.Jacket. Shoes. Now,” I said.”Stay in fro