Up the outside flight of steep concrete stairs 81-year-old Frank — hot meal in hand — slowly climbs to a small landing and rings a doorbell. A long minute passes. The front door opens. A head in shadows peers out from inside. Then a wavering aphasiated octogenarian women’s voice dampened by a stroke asks Frank to open the security door that serves as protection against the world outside. The tiny landing is jammed with stacks of old wet newspapers, empty flower pots and two seatless chairs, so, in order to open the security door that swings outward, Frank has to step backward off the landing, balancing the hot meal.