I didn’t understand why she was talking to my child. I’d asked to see the apartment. I’d made an appointment to see the apartment, and instead of taking me to see the apartment at once, this woman, this property manager — this assistant property manager, to be precise — had spent the better part of five minutes trying to ingratiate herself with my child. At first I thought it was sweet, the way it was sweet when the bank teller gave my daughter a lollipop or the woman at the bakery told her she had pretty eyes. But after five minutes I began to find Linda D’Angelo’s attention to my child less sweet than rude. I looked at my watch. She saw me look at my watch and still turned back to my daughter, asking the name of her stuffed animal in a tone so bubbly even the child found it suspicious and hesitated to answer.