The man, who was delivering a huge roll that, most likely, held paper plots for some project, shrugged eloquently.
"Rules are rules, man," he said. "I can get fired for it! She's either opening her door or showing me some ID, or no delivery. Never mind what the doorman says. That's the rules, man."
Cindy sighed, and slumped in her wheelchair.
"My ID," she said, "is upstairs, in my apartment; I was just coming down for some coffee."