where

At the steps to the front door, an average looking guy passes but lurches at the nearer step and suddenly looks worn, older than he's dressed, and very drunk. It's a quiet street though. Stand a bit straighter, step more cautiously. Tuck a padded envelope from the mail shelf under arm while leaning against the door. Watch a man sitting on a bench across the street, looking back. Keys out of the pocket, but on second thought, that isn't needed; the lock isn't turned.

Brow furrowed, the dead bolt clicks easily behind. Still, look at it a little balefully for a second before slipping off each muddy shoe and taking steps (one at a time).

There are a few books, a notepad, and one pen on the table. They look serious just sitting there. Slip two fingers under the curve of an open cover and slide the book closed. Stack all of them on top of the other, tight edges as though that matters. Slide the stack into one bag and thump that to the floor before ripping the envelope open with the Leatherman (still in hand). A set of keys crash and spread out onto the center of the cleared table.