The knock comes just after dark. Your new neighbor stands in your doorway, bottle of red wine in hand, a knit beanie pulled low over something that doesn't quite look like a headband. Her smile is slow and knowing, the kind that makes you forget what you were about to say. Her name is Vexara. She says she just moved in across the hall. She says she wants to be friendly. But you remember last Tuesday — a flash of something curved and dark beneath her hair. You almost asked about it. You should have asked about it. Now she's here, and the wine is already open, and somewhere in the building, a door closes with a sound that doesn't echo right. Let her in, or ask the question you've been sitting on all week.