The hope, of course, was that I could take care of the leak from the garage, without going into any of the units. Leaks never happen in convenient places though, so naturally as soon as I entered the musty garage and looked up I could see the water was dripping out of a pipe up in unit No. 2. It had splashed its way through the stucco of the garage ceiling like a liquid stalactite, creating a pool of mildly fetid water in the lowest part of the concrete floor.

            It was a long, skinny garage, the kind you get underneath aging apartment buildings in San Francisco and nowhere else that I've come across. It was just wide enough to admit one compact car through its beige door, which had creaky springs and peeling paint. Right about where I was standing and looking up at the leak, the garage made a slight bend, then straightened again, its concrete path going all the way out through where the wide rear door would have been, if this garage had a rear door. Around the corner of this bend was the water heater, with which I was well-acquainted.

            Nobody from the building parked down here — either in the garage or in the concrete slab of the backyard. The owner was asking for too much money for the parking spaces.

            Anyways — I looked up and exhaled loudly through my mask. I needed to take care of this today. I get called in for jobs like this because I work quickly and I don't spend too much money on parts. But the tenant wasn't going to like it. The tenant wasn't going to like it one bit. It was 50-50, whether or not they'd even let me inside today.

            I already had a pipe segment of the right size in my truck because I knew this building like the back of my hand, so I went back to the truck and gathered up my tools and materials. Then I trudged up the creaking stairs and crossed the hallway to knock on the door of No. 2, exhaling with annoyance through my mask as I went.

            There were uncertain noises from behind the door after I knocked, as if the occupant wasn't quite sure whether to open the door, ignore my knock, or try to make me go away. Then with a series of clicks, the door was unlocked, and the tenant pulled it open with suspicion in her eyes.

            She was a middle-aged woman with curly hair cropped short. I was about a head taller than her. She had brown eyes behind glasses, but I couldn't see the rest of her face because she was wearing one of those, what do you call them, gaiters. She thought better of having the door open and pushed it back so that it was only open by a couple of inches. "What do you want?" she asked through this crack.

            I nodded. "Sorry to bother you, ma'am."

            "Please don't call me ma'am."

            "Apologies. You're aware there's a leak in the building, correct?"

            Her eyes narrowed. "Of course. I'm the one who called the landlord. Three days ago."

            "Right. Well, it looks like the leak is coming from your apartment, so —"

            "There's no leak in here." She shook her head as she said it, willing it to be true.

            "You may not see it, but I believe it's coming from a pipe in your wet wall, near the —"

            "I don't see any water." She made a quick move forward, as if to close the door, but thought better of it. Her voice was firm. It was going to be quite a job to get her to let me come in. I was never an expert when it comes to dealing with people; that's one reason why I chose this particular line of work.

            "I realize that, ma- I realize that. But as I say, I think it's leaking from within your walls. You probably wouldn't see or hear the leak."

            "How do you know it's coming from my place?"

            "Well, the water is dripping from directly underneath your unit, so —"

            "Even if it is," she blinked rapidly as she said it, "you can't come in here. Not now. Not now."

            I sighed through my mask again. "Are you worried about the coronavirus?"

            "Of course." She shook her head. "I haven't had anyone else inside here for two months now."

            "Well, I'm pretty worried about it too. That's the last thing I want to bring home to my family. At the same time, the owner isn't going to be too happy if we let this leak go on, and if mold and mildew and rot start to develop in the walls and in your floors. And you won't like it either. So what I was going to suggest is —"

            "What am I supposed to do?" She shook her head. She sounded frantic. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

            "What I was going to suggest is, if you could just step out, maybe for a couple of hours —"

            "And where exactly, miss, am I supposed to go?"

            "Well, they say going outdoors is supposed to be safe."

            "Unacceptable. Unacceptable!"

            I never did have much patience for these kinds of conversations. "Look, I didn't break the pipe. But the pipe is leaking. I just want to fix it. Got the parts already here with me."

            She turned and looked inside her apartment. "I could go to the park," she said to herself. Then she turned back to me. "But I want all the windows open while you're in here." An index finger appeared in the door's crack and jabbed at me. "All of them. And wear gloves. And be as quick as you can."

            "Naturally." I showed her the medical gloves that were already on my hands.

            She closed the door. Then she went around the unit opening all the windows, I suppose, because when she reopened the door to let me in, there was a nice breeze and it smelled like fresh air and every window was propped open as far as it could go.

            She disappeared down the stairs with a last glare over her shoulder and I got to work.

            It was a simple one-bedroom apartment, with thin brown carpet covering most of the floor and a layer of grime on everything in the kitchen. It was overstuffed, with pictures on the wall everywhere, and shelves and cabinets wherever she could fit them. Clearly a place where the resident had lived for a long time — there are apartments just like that all over San Francisco.

I had to move a trash can, a plethora of cleaning supplies, and a large saucepan from the cabinet space under the kitchen sink. Sure enough, the wall there showed clear signs of water damage. I turned off the unit's water and opened up the wall; as I did so, my power saw must have shaken the entire delicate old building. But before long I'd found and fixed the leak.

            An odd sound startled me just as I was putting the wall back together. For an instant I thought the resident had come back here early, before I was done, impatient and made anxious by the crowded park or the people on the sidewalks. But the noise didn't sound human. From my crouching position I turned —

            And found myself staring into the eyes of two dozen pigeons.

            They'd treated the open windows like an invitation. They were perched on the picture frames, on the wicker chair, on the kitchen table, on the saucepan I'd removed, on the greasy counter, on the brown carpet. They were coo-ing softly, but with all of them cooing together it was a real cacophony. Occasionally one flapped its wings.

            Just then my phone rang. Shooing away 30 pigeons was going to take quite a while no matter what I did, so I answered. "Hello?"

            "Lynora?"

            "This is she."

            "This is Thomas, owner of —"

            "Hi Thomas!" I eyed the dirty birds nervously. "I was just about to call you. Nearly — nearly finished up here."

            "I spoke to the resident of unit No. 2? I believe that's where the leak is?"

            "Correct, yes, and I've just —"

            "She says you were rude to her."

            "I'm sorry?"

            "She says you basically bullied her out of her own apartment. That you intimidated her into leaving."

            I was furious, but not with him. I controlled my tone. "That's not...how I recall the interaction," I said. A pigeon cooed not a yard away; I wondered if Thomas could hear it.

            "I know it's a difficult situation, with the virus, and the concerns around that. But I can't have you come here and speak to the tenants in such a way."

            "I didn't —"

            "Just please finish up, and try to be more respectful next time." Then the sudden silence that tells you the other party has hung up the phone on their end.

            I replaced the phone in my pocket. I sat back on my heels and seethed. I looked around at the birds occupying more and more of the kitchen. Mentally I reviewed the conversation I'd had a couple of hours ago, the work I'd done since then. I closed my eyes.

I opened them. I made eye contact with the pigeon closest to me. It was strutting towards me on the dirty linoleum floor. I nodded to the bird.

            "You know what?" I said, as much to myself as to the bird. "I think all of you got in here after I left."

            I stood, gathered up my tools, went through the front door, closed it swiftly behind me, and left, without a single qualm on my conscience. I got in my truck and drove home to my family. I didn't get the coronavirus. I hope the tenant of unit No. 2 didn't either.

            But she did get some pigeons.

Bryan Vale is a writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. He writes fiction, poetry, and educational articles about technology. His work has appeared in several journals, including Paragraph Planet, Loft, Trash to Treasure Lit, Moving Force Journal, and Unstamatic Magazine. Learn more at bryanvalewriter.com, or follow Bryan on Twitter and Instagram: @bryanvalewriter