“Who?”
“Mr. Rogers,” she says. “He lived up here before you and shuffled.”
“I didn’t—”
“Now it’s you,” she continues. “Thud. Thud. Thud.”
I rub my jaw. “I was told these apartments have state-of-the-art soundproofing.”
She laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Yes. They do. Except mine. Apparently, mine is special. My apartment is the only one in the building that didn’t get whatever miracle insulation the rest of you have,” she says. “Management was very honest about it. Knocked money off the rent. Big selling point.”
“And you still took it?”
“Two years ago, the man above me shuffled.” She points to my chest. “Then you moved in.”
I lean against the doorframe. I can’t help it; the sight of her in those slippers is lifting my grim mood. It’s the first thing that’s made me want to smile in weeks.
“I haven’t heard a peep from the neighbors on either side,” I tell her.
“My apartment is the architectural glitch. The soundproofing stops where your ego begins. You’ve got to stop or at least run at a reasonable hour, you know, when people are actually awake.”
“I work shifts,” I explain, crossing my arms. My eyes dip down to her slippers again. “Sometimes late. I need the cardio to wind down.”
“Wind down? You’re revving up!” She tries to stand straighter. “I’m sorry your job is stressful, but I have a politician flipping off reporters tomorrow, and I can’t do my job if I’m hallucinating from lack of sleep.”
“Look,” I say, softening my voice. “I didn’t realize it was that loud, but maybe the soundproofing issue is something you should raise with maintenance or your landlord?”
“Oh, don’t you dare ‘logistics’ me, Doc,” she says, her eyes flashing. “I am too high on whatever you gave me yesterday to deal with a landlord. I am dealing withyou.”
She takes a shaky step back and pulls her robe tighter.
“You’ll have to imagine me storming away because I can’t physically do it right now.”
“Wait.” I step into the hall. “Are you okay? You really shouldn’t be up and around too much.”
“I know!” she shouts, turning toward the stairs.
“Take the elevator,” I call out, concerned. “The stairs will kill your back.”
“Again, I know.”
Her pink slippers shuffle across the carpet.
“I’m thirty-five years old,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “I should not be this rattled by a woman in slippers.” I start toward her. “Let me help.”
“Please don’t, Doc,” she says, her hand on therailing as she prepares to descend. She looks back over her shoulder. “Do me a favor and run on a soft surface. That’s how you can help. Goodnight.”
I watch her go, the pink fluff of her slippers disappearing down the stairwell, one agonizing step at a time.
Seven
Madison
Me:SOS.
Emmy:Why are you awake?
Celeste:Have you seized up?
