The biting wind howled through the cracked windowpanes of Building C, carrying the scent of wet concrete and something worse: the metallic tang of a dead furnace. It was 3:00 AM, the ambient temperature was five degrees below zero, and I was staring at a catastrophic failure that my Master HVAC certification couldn't fix. The basement of the Oak Street Tenements usually smelled of ancient grease, but tonight it smelled like fear. I’ve been the maintenance supervisor here for two decades; I know the groan of every galvanized pipe and the rattle of every rusted vent. But when I crouched down to inspect the main boiler - a massive "Iron Fireman" unit installed during the Eisenhower administration - my knees popped in the freezing air, and my heart sank. The pilot light was dark. The silence was absolute. Upstairs, Mrs. Maria Alvarez in 3B was trying to keep her premature newborn, Leo, warm with a space heater that was likely tripping the breakers. Mr. Henderson in 1A, a Korean War vet with end-stage COPD, needed the radiators hot to keep the dampness from seizing his lungs. If I didn't get this iron heart beating within the hour, the pipes would freeze, burst, and the city would condemn the building by sunrise. I checked the gas line pressure with my digital manometer, praying for a reading. It read 0.00 inches of water column. The main intake valve was frozen shut at the street level, or the utility company had finally cut the line due to management's unpaid bills. I stood up, my breath forming thick white clouds in the stagnant air, realizing I was just a man with a wrench standing against the crushing weight of an arctic front.
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