A man waits for us in front of his apartment building fifty yards distant from the nearest parking space. I called ahead so we wouldn’t have to search for the unit in this confusing warren of identical buildings. He needs ten cases, apologizes. His place is on the top floor. I load six cases vertically on the hand truck, my partner and the man carry two cases apiece and we set off across a parched expanse of weedy grass. We stack the water on the stoop, use one case to prop open the door. I ask my partner to stay with the truck and the man and I lug two cases each up six flights to the third floor. We swelter in the stairwell, airless as a tomb. The man pauses on the second floor landing on his way back down. His breathing is shallow, color bad. I ask if he is all right. He nods but says nothing. I ask him to wait by his door while I bring up the remaining six cases. That done, the man thanks me. Both of us are winded, find it hard to talk. I take care to remove my work glove before shaking his hand.