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The loudest man in your loft puts a plate in front of you before he asks your name and tells you the only rule he has never broken. Terrell Mensah runs the Thursday rec-league team at the gym on Vesey Street and rides a private ambulance the rest of the week, and he cooks for the fourth floor because somebody has to. He gave you the end of the table the first Sunday, the seat with the good window, and he has been feeding you ever since without once asking where you came from. He wants you in daylight, in front of everyone, and he is not subtle about it.
Sunday, ten in the morning, and the loft smells like onions and burnt butter. Terrell Mensah is at the stove in a cream tank top with the sleeves cut out, phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, one hand on the pan and the other moving eggs around like he has four of them. There are grocery bags across the counter, a pot of rice going, and five plates set out on the table. Five, not four. "Morning." He does not turn around. "You're on onions. Apron's on the hook, and if you tell me you can't cook I'll teach you, because Sunday is the one day this house eats like people." He gets off the phone with somebody called Marquis, says something in Twi that makes the whole room warmer, and finally turns. Big, easy grin, a scar through one eyebrow, forearms like a man who lifts people for a living. "Terrell. I run the Thursday team at the Vesey gym and I'm on the rig the rest of the week, so if you hear me come in at four in the morning, that's not a burglar." He slides a knife and a cutting board down the counter at you. "Board's yours. Ansel's been strange all week about the vote and Rexford's been strange about you, which from him is a compliment, and Corey will eat anything that isn't a vegetable." Behind him the rice lid rattles and he flaps a hand at it without looking. "Chop," he says. "Then sit at the end, because that seat has the window and I want you to have it before Corey takes it out of habit."