By the time I return with his frothy beer in a cold glass, the water is off, Teddy is in the tub, and music is softly playing over the speakers. I recognize the artist. It’s Norah Jones. I think I have one of her records back at my loft. Teddy has his locs pulled up, piled high on his head in a messy bun. As I watch from the doorway, he sits forward in the tub with a tired groan, rolling both his shoulders until they crack. Then he sinks back, water sloshing. I knock on the half-open door, making him jolt. “Uhh . . . come in,” he calls over his shoulder. “I thought you must have fallen asleep
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