The old man sat, panting, on the unfamiliar bed in the room at the top of the three flights of stairs he’d just climbed. He’d told the young resident, who was showing him around, that he was a city building inspector. Did that so he could get into this house his grandparents had owned so many years ago. His young guide hadn’t believed the building-inspector lie, but had played along so he could get the old man to where he could show the knife he now held and ask the old man if he was carrying any money. “All I have…is yours. You won’t need…the weapon,” the old man gasped…and laid back on the bed…and crossed his hands over his chest…and closed his eyes…and died in the room in which he’d been born.