The note taped to the front door of our apartment a few days earlier said to expect an inspection. It didn’t say when.
That meant staying home in case any questions needed answering. A knock on the door came, and a genial man with a patch on his shirt pulled a bunch of things out from under our sink before leaving to poke around somewhere on the first floor below us.
Shortly thereafter came the word: whatever was leaking wasn’t coming from us, but from a dishwasher.
I spend so little time thinking about what it takes to keep a building running that it’s always a surprise when this comes up and goes smoothly.