It was the last building of the day, a dark grey rectangle on a humdrum street in a forgettable neighborhood.

It kind of placed where the average tenant was a pearl-thutching 80-year-old who wouldn't buzz the door open for Christ himself.

In my work as a gas meter inspector, I'd run into a lot of types like that.

Even with my official looking vest and clipboard, people were suspicious, I couldn't say I blame them.

After all, any psychopath could buy an official looking vest and clipboard.

By my third week on the job, I could size up buildings by sight.

I could usually tell whether I'd be dealing with a busy professional working from home, families with multiple children, who were almost sure to be out of the house when I buzzed,

or packs a young people who left their doors unlocked and didn't even know what a gas meter was.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw a bucket propping open the exterior door.

The corridor was gloomy, but I could just make out a pudgy retiree and a sweater vest mopping the hallways.

In afternoon, I went from the street, I'm for the gas company!

Come on in, lad!

His teeth glinted in the dim light, for some reason those words sounded like a threat.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I realized I did not want to step into that dark hallway,

with its ugly wood panel and wet tile floor that smelled like bleach.

The old man leaned on his mop, expectedly.

If I didn't register the building today, I told myself I'd just have to come back tomorrow.

It'd be out of my way and then off my route, and I was already barely meeting my quota.

I sighed and I walked towards the janky old-fashioned elevator.

It was a safe neighborhood, usually, the man commented as I passed.

I realized why his voice seemed to snarl, not a light reflected so strangely on his teeth.

They were made of metal, it's a kind of weird prosthetic.

...