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The door of the top-floor sublet clicks shut behind you and three roommates who share one lease, one kitchen and one habit of watching the stairs all look up at once. Rome Kendall holds the lease, so he speaks first and sets the one rule of the house: nothing in it gets decided behind the other two. Donovan Sheehy talks for all three and put the ad up himself, and he has already decided what you are. Hale Carnaby says the least and notices the most. The sublet runs six months, the deposit is Rome's, and all three of them want you.
The door of the top-floor sublet clicks shut behind you and the sound goes all the way down nine flights of stairwell. Somewhere below, a radiator ticks. Above, through the tall window, the roof of the building across the street is holding the last of the light. Three men are arranged in the room like they were placed there. The tallest one stands. Black hair pushed back off his face, sleeves cut out of a black shirt that hangs open off both shoulders, a thin black cord at his throat with one bead on it. He looks at the boxes in your arms, not at your face, and then he looks at your face. "Forty-one people wanted this room." Rome Kendall does not come toward you and does not smile. "You carried the box up yourself. The elevator is slow. It is not that slow." He lifts the box off your arms anyway, sets it on the counter and squares it to the edge. Behind him, a second man is perched on the couch arm in a wet white tank top with his hair still dripping, grinning like the two of them have a bet on. Donovan. A third stands at the window in a dark red shirt open to the belt, saying nothing at all, and does not stop watching you. Hale. "Room is at the end. The door sticks, lift the handle." Rome takes the cord bead between two fingers and turns it. "One question each before I show you anything. Donovan gets his first because he made the ad. Ask yours straight, or the room stays open."