Cradling the gift from his aunt, Adam went down the stairs to street level. October was telling a firefighter that the smoke “was just some faulty wiring, possibly caused by ghosts.” The firefighter, having clearly heard this kind of talk from her before, was trying to excuse herself.

Gladys, having also made it down before Adam, was talking to an older man in a security uniform. “I hope I didn’t cause any trouble,” he said. “Thought there was a fire, so I had to call.” Gladys assured the man that they were thankful he was looking out for their safety.

I was on the phone just now with my nephew, who is four, and he was getting his little sister, who is two, to say words for me to show how much he had taught her. He would say “Say ‘House'” and she would say “House!” and so on. But when he tried to get her to say “Furniture” she couldn’t or wouldn’t do it. “That’s a complex word,” I said “She can’t say it yet.” He agreed, but was proud he could say it. He went on, saying “Mama has furniture, and Nanny has furniture,” so I chimed in “I have furniture too, but mine isn’t as nice.” This is demonstrably true, given my history of financial woes combined with my lack of interest in acquiring anything that matches or whatever.

He has never seen my furniture in person, given that the only time he’s been in my apartment was when I was moving in and the furniture wasn’t even here. A large chunk of the kid’s life has been during pandemic, so he’s certainly not visited any time since.

But when I was self-deprecatingly putting down my furniture, he told me that “You do actually have nice furniture. I kind of love it.” It’s cute enough that he takes pride in teaching his sister, but it makes me extra happy that he cares enough about how other people feel to say something like that. It’s a sign he may not wind up a jerk.

Gladys looked down at the flashing lights. “They think we’re on fire. Someone should go handle that.”

October headed for the fire escape. “I have connections in the fire department,” she said. “I’ll talk to them.”

Adam watched as the Beekeepers continued their retreat into the smoke until only one remained. Adam’s aunt Abuya approached him. “Take this,” she said. She offered him a small ornate box. “I’ve been looking after them for you.”

Adam took the box and opened it. Bees. Survivors left over from his first hive. He looked back up, but Abuya was gone with the smoke.