I’d come to expect Eddie Carrera in the lobby when I returned from work.
Down the steps, past the round carpet with the big, cursive “W”—he’d be reading in his usual spot by the elevators. People who knew him would stop to chat. And kids would swirl around his wheelchair, like Tasmanian devils. Not wanting to interrupt, I’d smile at him and wave from a distance. And he’d wave back. For months after I’d moved into the Woodner Apartments, this was our ritual.