Keys jangling in my palm, I stumble upon a man plugging a microwave in to the exterior of my condo complex. He crouches low to the ground, to reach the outlet, concealing himself behind his rusted-out sedan. Preparing to cook his ready-to-eat dinner in the 12 by 18-inch box. Which makes me wonder: Without something as standard and underappreciated as four walls and electricity, how would a person make a warm meal?

My presence elicits a skittish energy from him, like a feral cat. He must know his actions could be construed as unseemly, illicit. That he needs to watch out for me. That I possess a certain power in my new status as a homeowner.

When I was a kid, my parents used to argue, voices yelling, about the very real possibility of “losing our house.” My biggest fear was that if the house was repossessed, my parents might be seen as unfit. I eventually worked up the nerve to ask my mom: “If they take our house away, will they take me away from you and Dad?”

“Of course not,” she hissed, her embarrassment and fear masquerading as anger. “Look at all those kids who end up living in cars with their parents.”

Even now, safely in adulthood, being housed still feels like a precarious blessing.

So, I simply nod, say hey there to the man and keep walking, enter my unit as he grunts in response. Hoping his meal does not taste like shame.