In the group chat
The Front Door, Third Week
"Door still broken. Anyone could walk in." That was the ground floor, at 7:12. By 7:40 the residents' chat held nineteen more messages, among them two photos of the lock and a story about a stolen bicycle. Ngozi read all of it on the bus. She could feel the morning's complaints settling into the same shape as last week's: everybody annoyed, nobody assigned.
"Who has actually called the management company?" she wrote. "Name and date, please." Silence. Then Halima from 3B, who rarely posted: "Maybe until it's fixed we could wedge the inner door and put up a note with a number to ring?" "That doesn't solve it," Ngozi typed, and moved on. She got off the bus, stood outside her office, and called the company herself at 8:05. At 8:20 she was back in the chat.
"Done. Technician comes Thursday between 10 and 12. Someone has to let him in. Mr. Bello, you're on the ground floor and home in the mornings. Can you take Thursday? If he doesn't show, I chase them Friday at 8:00." Mr. Bello sent a thumbs-up. It had taken fifteen minutes to do what three weeks of messages had not, and she was pleased, and a little impatient with all of them.
At lunch she reread the thread to check she had missed nothing. She had. Thursday was three days off. For three nights the door would still stand open, and the one idea that covered those nights was Halima's, which she had flattened in four words without reading it properly. She opened a blank document and had the note half written, phone number and all, before she caught herself. This was Halima's idea.
"Halima, I was too quick this morning. Your suggestion is the right one until Thursday. Will you write the note? I can print it at work and bring it tonight." The reply took a while. "I already wrote it. I wasn't sure anyone wanted it." "I do. Send it over."