My downstairs neighbor is an older woman with a grown son who has schizophrenia (at least). He does not as far as I can tell live here, but he often visits and rambles around the neighborhood smoking cheap cigarettes. Sometimes he asks me to drive him to the Mercedes dealership to pick up the car he has just ordered, but I rarely hear him speak. She works multiple jobs. They check in with each other, sometimes, through a sketchbook in the stairwell, for drawing seems to be a mutual interest. Last night when I came home:

Back in a bit. Went to look for you.