Mark shook his head and murmured, “Not safe. It’s a good thing I pay all my bills online.” He didn’t mention personal mail, and I observed him thoughtfully.
“What about Christmas cards? Birthday cards?”
“Oh, well, yeah, but…Sh-shoot.” He scowled. “Something else to worry about.”
Ms. Dashwood tried to steer us toward the elevators, but Mark, who I’d learned had an almost pathological distrust of elevators—and who was still annoyed by the fact that he’d have to retrieve his mail—stalked toward the stairwell. I followed him, and he muttered, “You get out of breath, and I’m tossing you over my shoulder and carrying you the rest of the way!” And he kept glancing at me from the corner of his eye as we made the climb to the top floor.
Having taken the elevator, Ms. Dashwood was there ahead of us, waiting impatiently, although she smoothed her expression as soon as she saw us approaching. She pasted a smile on her face and unlocked the door of 320.