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Summary
Murphy’s apartment complex is, well, an absolute nightmare.
The neighbors are loud, the lobby windows are barred, and the place holds the perpetual stench of spoiled milk and something akin to death.
But it has it’s perks, he thinks, as he strains to stretch tall enough to stare through the peephole at 4:30 pm each day, waiting for the new guy Murphy has so cleverly dubbed "207"- the mystery man’s apartment number- to walk past his door, one sun-paled leash in each tightly curled fist.
He will pet those dogs if it’s the last thing he ever does.