He finds one nestled between garbage bags; one half-buried under grimy supermarket catalogues; one resting on top of what appears to be a used condom; and the fourth sticking out of a well-trimmed hedge like an explorer's flag.

The door opens.

"Oh, so that's yours." A woman's voice. He can almost see her hands settling on her hips. "I was wondering where that came from."

"Sorry, ma'am." It's four in the morning, he thinks. Was she just on the other side of that door, ear pressed against the screen? "I dropped it."

A snort. "Quite the drop."

"Yes, I'm…tall." Shit. "And that was a joke! Actually, it was for a bet. My friend said that I couldn't–"

Another snort. "Your friend nothing. You think I haven't seen you spinning across the rooftops? Close your mouth, boy, you look like a landed fish."

"You're confused, ma'am," he says, recovering himself. "I'm blind–"

"And that Hawkeye fellow's deaf, and I've got a bum knee, but I can still thwack you with my walker."

"You're saying that I'm the vigilante of Hell's Kitchen."

"Don't play stupid, I taught elementary school for fifty years and I'm full up with that."

"I should go," Matt says. His hand is sweating around his cane.

She flaps at him. "You do that."

He turns around and tries to walk as quickly as he can without confirming all her suspicions.

"Leave 'em in the yard next time!" she calls at his retreating back, and cackles when he quickens his pace.