THE MORNING SKY, where it could be seen, was an undifferentiated gray. Cross-breezes stirred indoors without sustaining themselves, and the air in the stairway was thick and stagnant. Outside there was enough wind to flutter a safety pennant at the back of an adult-child two-seater bike. The hydrant was open and misting the sidewalk. From the 27th floor, the riverbank off in New Jersey was as green and lush as it may ever have been. The wine bar that had closed months and months ago and papered its windows was suddenly open for business and open to the street, with its front glass accordioned off to one end and a bare-shouldered woman in ruffles perched just in off the sidewalk, reading with a sweating glass of white wine on the bar in front of her. An elderly man passed with his shirt open narrowly all the way to the waist. The paper and the weather app had disagreed about whether midday storms would come, and the paper turned out to have been correct that they wouldn’t. The sun was so bright that from outside the FedEx store looked closed and vacant.