When her microwave stopped humming, she knew she was in trouble.

The onslaught of sudden darkness always causes problems in this building. Everyone is screwed up enough without the monthly blackout, robbing the halls with whatever light seeps through from the dilapidated street lamps outside. She normally waits it out, burrows within her sheets, and tries to elude the sounds of cracked-out residents screaming bloody murder. Normally, it works. Her broken window is rarely a problem. Tonight, however, the flimsy sheet of Saran-wrap covering the holes was easily perforated by the throbbing hail. She had to move.

She ventured down the twelve flights of stairs.

Below her lived her current interest. The information she had quietly gathered over the last year or so proved to be her only entertainment. She tended to hang a little closer to the broken doorknobs of tenants with domestic problems or loud phone voices. But she had never heard anything about him, nor from him. She broke into his apartment one day and broke his heat, hoping he would complain to her boss. She stole the "2" from his apartment number, one of his apparent fascinations (1123?), expecting him to request her. He never did. She pressed her ear up to his door tonight, but heard no noises from within.

A few floors down, that damn little kid (Brayton? Satan? She never listened when he told her) stood by the elevator doors. He always asked her questions about her life; she was always silent. She rushed past this doorway, hoping he wouldn't catch a glimpse of her scurrying past, and headed for the street to poach her daily pack of gum.

She's spent her life running.

Everyday she evades the cop chasing her. She doubts he'll ever catch her; she doubts he even gives a shit. There's plenty more for him to deal with than a 19 year old girl stealing a box of gum everyday.

She stands at street corners.

She passes judgment at the hookers; they epitomize desperation daily. Hell, not that her living is much more honest. Her insecurities taint the 5 cents she earns from every piece of gum. But it's how she pays her rent.

That, and working for the superintendent.

She's known as the repair woman, but she fumbles with the wrench. No, the superintendent hired her as a pair of ears. Every night she hides beneath her mangy blue jumpsuit, riding the elevator, walking the halls, and listening to every useless morsel of quiet conversation. She tells the superintendent each word. Except if it's interesting. Those stories she hides behind her broken bed frame, broken dresser, and broken thoughts.