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.