“My insurance said they weren’t paying anymore,” he said, sitting amid the bills and junk mail that had piled up during his nearly three months away. The rehabilitation center had provided him with a walker, but it was too heavy to carry up and down the stairs, so it sat idle, in the spot where a neighbor had put it for him. Mr. Jones did not know when he would feel strong enough to leave the apartment.

The care he gets at home is minimal.

He has regular contact with only one of his six children, and she has breast cancer, which keeps her from spending much time with him, he said. He has too much money to qualify for Medicaid and most subsidized programs for low-income seniors, but not enough to afford private aides or to move from his rent-controlled apartment to a building with an elevator. When he was discharged from the rehabilitation center — “too soon,” he said — he was left with only short-term solutions: a visiting nurse to change the dressing on his foot, a part-time aide for three weeks and meals on wheels delivered twice a week.

Wearing pajamas because he did not feel up to getting dressed, he rued some of his choices. “I played and played and played until I played out,” he said. “I wasn’t smart enough. I thought I was gonna be healthy, happy and vigorous and everything else for 100 years at least. Then I got caught, nobody here to take care of me, and it’s all my own fault. Cause I had plenty of girlfriends who wanted to move in with me, but I said no. I always felt that there was something better out there for me.”

Since he returned home, a physical therapist has been working with Mr. Jones on the stairway, urging him to position both feet on one step before moving on to the next. Progress was slow, and Mr. Jones did not like the method.

Part of him wanted to be back at the rehabilitation center, where he got more care. “But they’re not going to accept me back,” he said. “A friend of mine is telling me the way to get back is call an ambulance, go to the hospital, and then when they discharge me, they’ll discharge me to another health-related facility. But I’m tired of these health-related facilities anyway, and the hospital. So guess I’ll just do whatever I can.”

As he talked, Mr. Jones’s spirits picked up. They always do. He was home; his daughter would visit him later in the week; life was good.

“I hope with God’s help I’ll be able to get out next week,” he said. That was early September. Since then he has gone out three times, to see doctors. It was difficult, and he did not walk far, but it was progress.

In his apartment, Mr. Jones raised himself from the couch, then sat down quickly, fearing he might fall. “Two things I need urgently,” he said. “A mate and an apartment.” He smiled at his audacity. “But the apartment first.”