He would laugh, if he weren't so annoyed. If he were cleverer or more mean-spirited, he would construct some farce about why this was a perfectly good living space. As it is, he just sighs and pushes the button for the fourth floor.

"This is just to go up," he says. "You're not living in here. It's a lift. Everyone uses it." He shakes his head, staring dully at the changing floor numbers until they reach the fourth and the lift doors slide open again. He steps out and leads her to the apartment at the end of the hall. "This is you," he says, and opens the door for her.

It's a simple space. Modestly furnished. A kitchenette, a little couch and table, a bed, closet, bathroom. She won't be needing most of it, he predicts.