1
Lydia Whitecliff keeps to herself in Unit 602. She’s my oldest resident. Silver haired, partial to crochet. Quiet. Not a troublesome tenant. A proud native to This City. It’s a shame how few of her kind remain.
Ron Morris, Unit 211, is a lonely bachelor who lives only for his dog. A runty, three-legged mutt that relieves itself in common areas far too often. It’s trained not to piss in the apartment, but the rotten beast thinks the lobby tiling is the same as sidewalk. According to the terms of his lease, he’s allowed the creature. But someday I’ll devise a way to get rid of it.
Mostly other singles reside here. Few couples can withstand cohabitation in these tiny apartments. Though I’ve come to realize Nick and James Hooper, Unit 408, make one of these pairs. They look so similar, I thought they were brothers when they first moved in. Turns out they’re just homosexual narcissists, attracted to the closest thing they could find to themselves. It’s a perversion I don’t quite understand.
There are more offensive tenants in the building than them.
For example, Irene Hua, Unit 203, cooks overly pungent dishes with fumes that seep into my walls. I don’t ever recall experiencing such unpleasant smells before her. The damaging odor could be permanent, I fear, scaring off prospective tenants. So I allow her to keep her home. Better a unit plagued by an undesirable than an empty one.
Vacancy could lead to my expiry. I’ve seen it happen in older buildings.
Meanwhile, above Irene, Amir Zaddeh doesn’t seem bothered by the exotic miasma that wafts up to Unit 303. He talks loudly in a thick accent to relatives back home daily while stomping around his apartment, scratching at his unkempt mangle of beard. The racket gives me a “headache.”
I continuingly fail to perceive what my precious Lana sees in this man. I do not blame her, of course. Amir is a swarthy, migratory, odd semblance of a man. I have no analogous features by which to compare myself, no way to prove myself superior in Lana’s eyes. I am gray concrete. I am tinted, azure glass. I stand at 25 meters in height. I am a mix of studio apartments and one-bedroom suites. I feature a rooftop deck with a firepit. In unit laundry. A communal recreation room. Top brand appliances like dishwashers, ovens, and refrigerators. I offer stunning views of downtown. The river that divides This City. The dark, pine-speckled mountains in the distance.
I am The Rise.
I’m quite certain that I was something else before I was a luxury apartment building with a weight room on the second floor and a petite lobby cafe open daily. In an era long before my cafe or the trendier coffee shops in This City opened their doors to hoards of theys and thems.
The specifics of that other life escape me. All I know now is that I feel tremendous unease at the unfamiliar people that occupy this space that I am and the rapidly changing neighborhood that surrounds it. I do feel privileged to offer shelter—a home—to some.
Lana, for example.
Lana Riley lives in the one-bedroom apartment across the hall from Amir. Unit 304.
She was one of my first residents. When she arrived, with her golden locks of hair and her sparkling, emerald eyes, I finally felt purpose. A vivaciousness, even. I’m not sure that I was even awake before. As a human’s first memory is not of their birth, my consciousness did not commence with my construction. It manifested itself into being the day Lana Riley drove her beaten down Toyota RAV4 out from the rain and into the bowels of my underground parking garage.
2
Lana’s lease was to commence the day after her arrival. She had driven here from That City, looking to start over in This One. I watched closely as she pulled in, wiping tears from puffed eyes smeared with mascara. Her left hand clutched the steering wheel. A stark band of pale skin highlighted the ring finger. She had overestimated how long it would take her to drive from There to Here, arriving a full day earlier than planned.
In the lobby, she paced back and forth while speaking on the phone with my incompetent, short-statured property manager, Jonathan. I discovered my talent for eavesdropping then, taking in the entirety of their conversation with ease and only a shred of abashment. Jonathan explained that Lana must wait until the following morning when he was back onsite with her keys. She would need to find alternative accommodations for that evening. There was nothing more he could do, he told her. The lazy oaf.
Sympathetic to the poor girl’s situation, I opened the elevator door for her as she was preparing to leave. She stopped for a moment, hesitating. She knew she had not summoned the contraption. I pinged the elevator once more invitingly, beckoning her inside the cage.
To my pleasant surprise, she complied willingly. I considered illuminating the third floor button for her, but she needed no further prompts. We had the same idea. Rather than returning to her car in the basement, she gently pressed the bold-faced 3 using a vibrantly painted fingernail.
As the doors closed around her, an overwhelming sense of responsibility came over me. This girl was mine to embrace in the clutches of machinery and concrete. Mine to protect. Mine to admire.
Mine.
Lana exited in the wrong direction at first, eventually finding the door marked 304 in a sleek, contemporary font. It was supposed to be locked, but I was learning that Lana was a curious girl. Inquisitive enough to see if she could get into her new home despite Jonathan’s deterring words. So when she went to open her door, I ensured it obeyed her wishes. She passed through without protest.
I watched as she tossed the two bags she’d been carrying by the door and explored the cozy one-bedroom floorplan. She had rented one of my pre-furnished units, so it was perfectly livable already. Minutes later she was passed out on the bed—only a frame and an uncovered mattress at that point—too exhausted from her journey to worry much about anything but sleep.
Back in the garage, she had left her car unlocked with the rest of her belongings. A foolish mistake in This City with its kleptomaniacal vagrants and addicts. But I would make sure no one got to her things. I would take care of Lana.
She was safe. She was home.
With me.
3
Since being stirred awake, I nudge here and there. I’ll boost the ventilation in Irene’s apartment during a particularly pungent cooking spree. And I’ll sometimes whack Ron’s mutt with a door after it’s had the audacity to urinate on my floors—on me. When people make trivial building complaints to Jonathan, their mail might just go missing. Or a beloved tchotchke might fall from a shelf and shatter into a million little pieces that can never be reassembled.
I do know restraint. Before Lana arrived, I was perfectly content as an observer. I prefer my presence to go unnoticed in most cases. Too much interference, and even the most pragmatic among my residents would grow suspicious. I have no interest in garnering infamy on some blog of haunted structures.
The overtly good deeds, that unseen helping hand I possess, I reserve for Lana. To remind her that This City is better for her than That City ever was. I shine the exterior lights a little brighter when she comes home after dark. I keep the water pressure in her unit a little stronger than in the others. If she misses a call from a deliveryman looking for the package room, I always buzz them in for her.
One stormy evening, a homeless addict broke into the stairwell and camped out there for the night. Lana tried to take the stairs the next morning to go on a run. But I wouldn’t let her through. Finding the stairwell entry locked, she gave up and took the elevator, where I guided her down safely. As I always do.
It’s been ten months now that she’s been here. And I will continue to care for her in months or years or decades to come. This place is good for Lana. I am good for her.
Amir, on the other hand, is not so good. No. I don’t think he is.
4
Amir moved in shortly after Lana. Despite his obviously foreign upbringing, they have a number of things in common. He’s about the same age. Height compatible. Dressed in that similar, bohemian style that plagues the not-quite-so-young-anymore adults in This City. I was not surprised then that they had a connection.
Disappointed? Yes. But not surprised.
It started out perfectly cordial and neighborly. Hellos in the hallway. Exchanging restaurant recommendations. Watering his plants during a weekend away.
Then they began to spend more time together at the “community building” events Jonathan organized. Wine tastings in the lobby. Zumba on the rooftop. A Wild West night where my residents transformed themselves into colorful cowboys and saloon courtesans. It seemed to me that Lana’s and Amir’s and many of the other’s social lives revolved around these events put on “by The Rise,” though I take no credit for coordinating such frivolous festivities.
They served their purpose, however, in making Lana feel more at home with me. She befriended Nicolette Vaughn, 504, and Eva Mills, 410, at such events. They’re single, young professionals like Lana. And, like me, they adore her. Commenting on her voluminous, shining hair. Her vintage dresses and stylish shoes. Her warm heart. How her laugh makes a room glow. And how she can do so much better than Amir.
She continues to brush off the flatteries of her confidants. Amir and Lana continue to see each other. Serendipitous run-ins at cupcake socials have turned into planned movie nights, evolving even further into ventures beyond my field of vision.
And as single residents do, Lana and Amir began physical relations. The first time, I did all I could to block the third floor from my consciousness. The effort was futile. I learned then that I am all of The Rise at all times. My focus may wander, but it is impossible to ignore a fire alarm going off in one’s head.
Each time it upsets me.
But no more. No. Amir is corrupting her. The girl must be saved.
5
Lana and Amir had discussed some sort of demonstration going on today. Something about the orange man, and snow or ice, and people that look like “him” (Amir), and people sent Here from There. I’ve watched enough of my tenants watch television. I know what’s happening to This City. To This Country. Consequently, I know how to make Amir go away. I know how to make things better for Lana Riley.
And Lydia Whitecliff.
And Ron Morris. Though I still have to do something about that dog.
But my priority is Lana.
I cut the power to her unit after she fell asleep last night. Her phone died by the morning and her alarm never went off. Thirty minutes after their planned meeting time, Amir came knocking on her door, his texts and calls having gone unanswered. The brute was relentless, but I muffled his repetitious banging. Not even a fraction of a thud made it to Lana, still nestled in bed. Amir eventually gave up. As I understood it, he had other people to meet before the demonstration. So he left defeated.
Alone.
And as the sun rose higher and its shine grew brighter with the passing morning, I darkened the tint in Lana’s windows and adjusted her thermostat to a most comfortable temperature. I kept her safe in slumber as chaos engulfed some other part of This City.
6
Not more than two hours later, I witnessed Amir being chased down by authorities. At first the commotion was a soft blur. A foggy dream. Too distant for me to make sense of. But the men became more defined as they raced closer to my foundation. I could feel the stomps of their boots. The heat of their breathy panting in the crisp morning air.
The men chasing Amir were not the local police that cruise by my facade from time to time. These were masked. Some militarized contingent sent by the people in charge over There. By the orange man on the residents’ screens.
Amir had a sizable lead on the soldiers, reaching the building a dozen strides ahead of them. He scanned his key fob on the front entrance sensor. It didn’t work. He tried again. Error. He punched in a code on the keypad, which buzzed when I rejected it. He entered the correct code again. And again. In a last ditch effort, he called out to Jonathan, who was sitting at his lobby desk just inside, unable to hear a thing.
The masked authorities grabbed Amir.
Mercilessly, they slammed him to the ground. His jaw cracked on concrete and I felt his filthy blood splatter on my pristine, polished exterior. There was yelling. A scuffle followed. Amir was kicked in the ribs, then the face, knocking him unconscious as his nose crunched under a boot. Limp, finally, the soldiers ziptied his wrists before dragging him off. One stomped his phone to pieces before departing the scene.
I will not see Amir again.
And neither will Lana.
7
Distracted by the commotion, I realized I had permitted both light and sound to bleed into Lana’s apartment once more. She had stirred awake during one of those brief moments that my attention wasn’t focused on her. I found her sitting up in bed, trying to wake her phone. To no avail.
She leapt out of her sheets next. Scurried to the kitchen. Found the microwave clock blinking 00:00, asking to be reset after the power had flickered back on. Lana couldn’t be sure what time it was, but she had enough sense to recognize that she was late. She threw on an old college sweatshirt, fuzzy house slippers, and rushed for the door.
She crossed the hall to Unit 303 and knocked. Three times at first. Then a continuous rap. Getting no response from the no one inside, she marched down the hall. I had the elevator readied for her, but she made a sharp turn for the stairwell. While the stairs are too a part of me, each time she rejects the lift, I can’t help but feel an invitation has been declined. But Lana moved too quickly this morning for me to wallow in being snubbed.
She was passing Jonathan’s desk in the lobby moments later. He waved at her with a smile. She returned a cursory flutter of the hand, distracted. The next moment she was on the street. She immediately noticed the blood on the pavement, the cracked phone.
Seconds passed as she processed the unusual scene. Then she knelt down to pick it up. She recognized its camouflaged green case immediately as Amir’s.
She stood then, shivering as she looked up.
The security camera, which monitors the front entrance in perpetuity, stared back at her.
8
Lana frantically recounted what happened to Jonathan. He seemed more interested in calming her down than listening. She came across as quite hysterical—even I’ll admit that. Only half-believing her rambles, Jonathan glanced outside the street-facing window. He didn’t even bother to get up and see the blood splatters for himself.
The Hoopers walked into the lobby then. They held plastic cups pierced with paper straws, their names scribbled across each one in a verdant ink. Nick held an iced latte. James, a pale green drink. Lana lunged on them to ask if they saw Amir this morning. They shook their nearly identical heads and rushed upstairs.
Lana returned her attention to the property manager. She begged to see the security footage for the front door. Jonathan hesitated. He felt he shouldn’t show it. But he also wasn’t entirely sure there were rules against it. And how could he refuse her? She was so upset. And Jonathan isn’t a complete idiot. He suspected something going on between her and Amir.
Sympathy so often overrides reason.
He pulled up the morning’s security footage on the monitor. I was tempted to cut power to the lobby, but it would be too obvious. So I restrained myself as the scene I orchestrated played out once more. Only this time, Lana watched.
It didn’t take Jonathan long to find the incident. He cursed in his seat when it turned violent. Lana gasped, standing stooped above Jonathan’s right shoulder. As she cringes at what I never intended her to see, I shuddered with embarrassment. It comes through as a rattling of the building’s windows. My residents mistake it for wind.
I’ve never found a way to erase the CCTV footage. I’ve concluded the files must be stored somewhere offsite, beyond the reach of my consciousness. It is such a violation to have my memories offloaded and accessible to others—by creatures as simple-minded as Jonathan. Only worse, now Lana thinks I am a faulty building with a busted scanner and a dysfunctional keypad. She believes my flaws cost her Amir. She can’t know that these aren’t flaws at all. They are only my efforts to help her do better.
She stopped watching once the Hoopers stepped into the empty street for coffee, unaware of what had just transpired there minutes prior. Lana began to interrogate Jonathan next.
Why didn’t Amir’s key scan? Why wouldn’t his code work?
How could he not realize this had happened?
Jonathan only shrugged, totally at a loss himself. I control what he sees. What he hears. What he knows. Or at least I would have, were it not for those damned cameras.
“Piece of shit, building,” he muttered.
For that, I shocked him—lightly—through the keyboard when he next tapped it.
“Jeez!” he hissed.
Lana didn’t notice. She was already walking away. Lost in thought.
“Oh! By the way, Lana.”
Already by the elevator, she turned to face Jonathan. To address the interruption to her racing mind. “Yes?”
“Have you had a look over your renewal agreement yet?”
In reply, she gave him a more twisted, disgusted look than I even thought was possible through facial features like hers. It would have frightened me had I not found it so delightful. So I opened the elevator doors for her. She entered—not realizing she never called it—and allowed the doors to close without offering a reply.
Jonathan, accustomed to disrespect from my residents, only sighed and returned to that game with the columns of stacked playing cards on his computer.
9
Jonathan’s question has lingered unanswered for days. Its significance is not lost on me. Lana has yet to sign her lease renewal. Rather than act upon Jonathan’s reminder, she has become obsessed with Amir’s disappearance. Much to my dismay, the incident has consumed her.
She first confided in Eva, who suggested calling the police. Neither of them did. They knew it would lead nowhere.
Then Lana did an interview with Nicolette, who works for a local media outlet. I don’t know if anything came of it. It didn’t air on any of the news programs the other tenants have been watching.
She talked to Jonathan again. About how something wasn’t right about it all. How the security system was acting strange that day. She wanted—still wants—a copy of the CCTV footage. Jonathan said he never should have shown it to her. That’s one thing we agree on. Before storming off, she threatened to sue The Rise (the company) if they didn’t release the tapes.
Jonathan didn’t bring up her renewal paperwork that time. I wish he had.
Now Lana spends hours online. Reading up on immigration law. Posting in discussion threads. Messaging social media influencers with clout and a political angle. She never stops scrolling webpages. Trying to find information. About the raids in This City, the demonstrations in That City, Amir—anything.
From what I’ve gathered, tensions have grown everywhere. Unrest has blossomed since Amir was taken. And others are missing too. Lana wants to do something. She wants to get involved. In what? I’m not entirely sure.
But tonight, I watched her dress in dark colors from head to toe. A surgical mask covered her mouth, her button nose. She pulled a beanie over her golden locks and placed sunglasses over those emerald eyes. I have seen her dress similarly before but, as I said, it is night.
Where could she be going at this hour? Looking like that?
As she departed, she didn’t grab the signs she often brought along with her. Not the one with the expletive and the ice cube. Not the one with the flag of This Country turned upside down.
I was so worried, I briefly attempted to lock the door. When she pulled on the knob, it wouldn’t open. She only pulled harder in response. I wanted to keep it closed. To keep her in. I truly felt I should. Yet I knew this would only alarm her. So when she yanked on the door for the third and strongest attempt, I released my hold.
The door flew open. She lost her balance. She yelped as she hit the floor. And I wanted to cry out, because, for the first time, I had hurt Lana. To my relief, however, she recovered quickly. Uninjured and unphased, she was up and on her way out again before I could think of another way to convince her to stay.
She took the stairs.
10
Lana never came home last night. I am so, so worried for her. Lana, where are you?
11
The sun was setting when Lana came home. She has never left me for so long.
She was only a block away when I noticed, but it took an eternity for her to reach me. She was walking so slowly. So stiff. I knew at once that she was not the same girl I’d released the night before.
She marched through the lobby in silence. Into my embrace on the elevator. I took her to the third floor, where she stumbled back inside her apartment. She turned on the shower, got in while it was still freezing, and let its temperature rise until it was as hot as it would go. She stood motionless in the steam. Her pale skin glowed pink from the heat.
She collapsed to the tub floor and sobbed.
I wanted to ask what had happened. What was wrong. I would have done anything for answers. But I am unable to communicate so directly. So I watched closely.
Huddled in the corner, Lana rubbed at her wrists. They were bruised. Rings of violet encircled them. Like the pale ring of untanned skin that marked her finger the day she arrived. Only these were worse. They were not from a lack of melanin. They were a mark of violence. A shadow of restraints cuffed too tightly. Who knows for how long.
Gradually, the story came together. I fantasized in horror at what she had endured. Away from me and my protection. Cold and alone. Imprisoned by those men. A situation someone as lovely as she should never know.
I have failed to protect her. So tonight the pipes clink and clatter with my sorrow.
12
Lana is not the same. Not since that night. Detained by police. Or worse, by those masked men who took Amir. She cries regularly. Doesn’t leave. Never washes. Barely eats. When she does, she relies on paper bags delivered by men who look like Amir.
And I am to blame.
I am at a loss. Searching for any semblance of an idea for how I might do right by Lana. While I fail to do so, I take out my despair on Jonathan. The residents. Their pets.
Flyers for The Rise’s social events fall off the walls, unread. Lightbulbs burn out far too often. Houseplants die off in succession.
Irene’s kitchen vent broke while a dish she was cooking burst into flames. She found herself choking on smoke and unable to open her windows. After she extinguished the fire, she was left wondering how the sprinkler system never went off.
After Ron’s mutt last pissed in the building, the lobby door swung shut on it so hard that it snapped the creature’s tail. Its howls startled even me. Now Ron is out thousands of dollars in veterinary bills. The dog continues to urinate everywhere. Even inside his unit.
And weak, elderly Lydia has been unable to open her bedroom door for two days. She’s trapped. And her phone is in the kitchen.
I cannot help any of it.
So my residents have started to talk.
13
Jonathan came by Lana’s apartment today. He knocked politely at the door, hoping to have a chat. I knew she didn’t wish to speak with anyone, so I did not let her hear him. It didn’t take long before he gave up the wait, taping a notice to vacate on her door. Only when he was back downstairs, did I knock the door myself.
Lana answered promptly. Seeing no one in the hall, she nearly shut it without seeing the notice. I fluttered the pale, yellow paper ever so slightly to catch her attention. Because of course I wanted her to see it. Our time together was at stake. But she needed to be reminded by me, not by Jonathan.
She plucked the paper from the door, leaving behind a shred of the adhesive. As she examined it, I tried to show her why she loved this place. I refracted light through the window to make it a little brighter. I adjusted the temperature to make the room a little warmer. I forced a ray of sunshine at her laptop, and her favorite spot on the green couch in the corner.
She sat down and opened her laptop. For once she didn’t navigate to the discussion forums and the news sites. She opened her email inbox. Clicked a link in the most recent follow-up communication sent by The Rise.
At last. She would renew. I felt it. Another year with Lana secured.
I allowed myself a sigh of relief at that moment. It comes across as a soft creak that rattles through the building, startling Ron’s little mutt into a yapping frenzy below in 211.
But the next moment, I’m watching Lana check the box next to “Vacate” on the form on her screen. She clicked it so swiftly, I nearly missed it before she scrolled to the bottom of the page. Reading nothing else. Signing hastily on the touch screen. She leaned back then, throwing glittering, manicured fingers over her beautiful face. She released a long sigh.
She broke my heart when she said, “I have to get out of here.”
She slammed her laptop shut and headed for the door. I thought to lock it but I knew not to try that again. She was in the hall running. Oh, why was she running?
She aimed first for the stairs. I barred her this time. She pushed the door handle in but it wouldn’t budge. She groaned, exasperated. She pushed again. And when I wouldn’t let her through, she screamed.
It was more than the door at which she wailed. No. It was for everything that had happened between us. And that noise she released from the depths of her chest told me everything. Her faith in me—in us—was no more.
She marched for the elevator next, determined to escape.
Upon reaching the call button, she pressed rapidly. Over and over and over. Clicking and clicking and clicking. The button had long been illuminated. I was already heeding her demand. I ignored another tenant’s call for the lift, skipping the fourth floor, zipping the box from the sixth to the third. I opened its doors, as I did on the day she arrived.
I dared Lana to come inside.
