Ervey turned the lock to his apartment, and the door immediately popped open. The sagging metal door provided only threadbare security. Ervey could have opened it by simply pushing up and inwards so the bolt rotated out of its catch, the way Chonito used to open it when he lived there. But Ervey always used his key, and his wife assured him that she did, too. The discipline allowed him to keep his sense of security at equilibrium and his pangs of guilt over its disrepair at bay.
Ervey stepped in and silently closed the door behind him. Although a studio, the room was large-- twelve by ten paces. He took off his boots and walked stealthily toward the bathroom in the dark. There were few pieces of furniture hazarding his way, only his bed on the right and the dining table and chairs on the left. He strode with confidence until he bumped into an unexpected object blocking the normally clear path to the bathroom. He felt it with both hands and realized it was a baby pen. Reaching softly into it, he learned that the baby was sleeping in it. He hesitated briefly to assimilate the information. Then he crept around it and slipped passed the vinyl curtains covering the threshold to the bathroom.
On his way out, he reached into the pen again to reassure himself. The baby was asleep and breathing steadily.
"Now it's going to get good," he whispered to himself.
Once in bed, he found his wife was awake.
"Long day," whispered his wife almost imperceptibly, "hard too?"
"What do you think?" he said.
"OK, but don't shake the bed to much because you'll wake the baby," she told him.
"Good idea about the baby pen," he said.
"Hmm," she responded.
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