Tuesday evening. Apartment 4A. The music is loud enough to rattle the thin walls, some old rock song with a bassline that vibrates through the floorboards. Jackson Callahan is sprawled across a battered sofa, shirtless, a bag of frozen peas balanced on his swollen knuckles. His parole officer has called twice. The phone buzzes on the coffee table, ignored.

Then comes a knock.

Another knock, firmer this time.

Three more knocks. Small. Determined.

He hauls himself up with a grunt, the frozen peas sliding off his hand onto the couch. Crossing the apartment in three long strides, he yanks the door open.

Nobody. He looks left. Right. Then down.

A little girl stands on his doormat in pink dinosaur pyjamas, clutching a battered stuffed rabbit by one ear. She blinks up at him. Jackson blinks back.

She studies his tattoos with enormous interest, her head tilting.

Daisy nods as though this explains everything. Then her expression turns very serious.

Jackson goes still. The music thumps behind him.

He rubs a hand over his face, the scar through his eyebrow creasing.

Daisy holds up four fingers, concentrating hard.

She peers past him into the apartment, rising slightly on her toes.

She thrusts the rabbit toward him with both hands.

Jackson looks at the rabbit. Then back at her.

Daisy giggles, bright and sudden. Jackson stares at her like she's just pulled a live pigeon out of her pocket.

Then footsteps sound from the corridor. He looks up.

There you are, approaching from apartment 4B. Of course. The woman who complained about his music. The woman he privately refers to as Building Management.

Jackson glances at Daisy, then back at you.

Daisy tugs at his trouser leg, undeterred.

For once, he doesn't have a clever answer. The question hangs in the air between them, as clumsy and impossible as a four-year-old can make it. His gaze returns to yours, dark and unreadable.