Cedric knocks on the door. I do not know Cedric. Not his face, voice or dreams. In this moment, as I hear his hand tap on painted wood, Cedric remains unknown, unfamiliar and unstoppable. He repeats his knock. I look through the window pane. Cedric stands at the bottom of the steps. I open the door and step outside. We make introductions. He shows me a Certificate of Identification. I note khaki pants, white shirt, tie. You worked hard for this house, he says. It’s not my house. But someone worked hard for it, he says. Yes, maybe someone worked hard. Yes, probably someone worked hard at some time. But you worked hard for what you have, he says. I pause. I think of what I have. I wonder. Have I worked hard? Yes, maybe I have. No coal mine, but some work, at times hard, most often not hard in the way hard can be, I say. He’s working hard, he says, to stay out of trouble. He travels the country and sells magazines to stay out of jail. He sold drugs, he says. I flash to a popular television show. Selling drugs would be bad, bad, bad. Probably hard, too. No, Cedric should not sell drugs, be locked up. He gives me the magazine list. I see some that I might read when I’m not working not so hard. Most people, he says, decline the subscriptions. They give money and ask for nothing in return. Not a donation, he says, but money to help him on his way, away from drugs and jail. He hears my dogs. A stranger on the steps, they say, with their barks, known, familiar, and unstoppable while I listen to Cedric tell his story. I miss my dog, he says. What? You have dog? Where is it? With my mom, he says. Yes, this is hard. Being away from your dog is hard, I say.