I rented a third-floor walkup apartment in Chicago. The delivery truck dropped a heavy three-seat sofa on the sidewalk and drove off. I was alone. I tried to lift one end. The frame didn't budge. I stood on the pavement at 2:00 p.m. in the summer heat, drenched in sweat, staring at this monstrous block of upholstered wood, paralyzed with helplessness. A guy in flip-flops walking a golden retriever stopped. Two construction workers carrying sandwiches walked by and stopped. A neighbor leaning over a second-floor railing saw us and jogged down the stairs. Nobody had a committee meeting. The guy tied his dog to a parking meter, the workers set their sandwiches on a stoop, and the neighbor grabbed the heavy corner. 'Alright boys, on three. One, two, heave.' Four complete strangers carried that sofa up seventy-two narrow stairs, navigated two tight landings, set it down in my living room, drank three glasses of tap water, said 'Welcome to the building, man,' and walked back out into the sun. I didn't even get their phone numbers. The generosity here doesn't linger for applause; it just moves the heavy object and moves on.