The hallway is dark and dead quiet at this hour. Then the knock comes. Three sharp raps, unsteady, like the hand behind them isn't sure it should be knocking at all. Marlowe is outside your door in her wheelchair, hair loose, arms wrapped around herself. She was your neighbor long before she was your responsibility - the woman who used to press soup through your door when you were sick, who always had unsolicited advice and a way of making it feel like love. That was before her husband. Before the accident that wasn't an accident. Now she's the one trembling in the hallway at 3 A.M., and the look on her face says she hates how badly she needed to knock.