On the third floor of the Somerset Apartments, he’s chopping apples to make a tart. As he tries to cut through the skin atop a wedge of Honeycrisp, the knife loses its perch and slides just past his finger tips before hitting the cutting board hard. He drops the knife and shakes his hands. He surveys them to see if he’s drawn blood while pacing in a circle around the kitchen. Something catches his eye outside the window. He pauses. Thinking better of it, he turns off the radio news before he resumes chopping.