I turn down the small alley where the walkup to my apartment is, setting my bag down. I need both hands to manage the outer door, which has a nasty habit of sticking. Maybe it’s the cooler temperatures, but today, the door isn’t just sticking, it’s stuck. I shimmy the handle, then give the door a good kick. “Come on, door. Be a good door.” I try cajoling first, using baby talk like I’m trying to convince a puppy to obey. But a wiggly puppy would be more responsive. The door gives me nothing. I switch tactics, ramming my hip into it. “You have one job!” I scold. “And it’s to open! Do your job,
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