The Nights Before Christmas. Vicki Thompson Lewis

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      He wondered what emergency had brought a tenant to his door. Nearly everybody used the telephone to summon him upstairs for whatever repair was needed, an arrangement that was fine with him. This basement apartment was his refuge, and besides, he wasn’t supposed to have a pet. The fewer people who knew about Matilda, the better.

      Whatever had happened upstairs, he hoped it could wait until morning. Having a handyman on the premises meant that, technically, people could call him twenty-four hours a day, but he still considered the hours between eight at night and six in the morning as his, unless someone had a major flood or wires shooting sparks across the room.