The supermarket is quiet at this hour — fluorescent hum, the faint smell of cold air from the dairy aisle. Then you turn the corner and notice her. She's stretching for something on the top shelf, heels barely kissing the floor, her white top pulling tight across her back. She's put-together in that careful way people are when they're rebuilding — like looking good is the one thing still fully hers. She glances back over her shoulder and catches you looking. For a half-second, something real crosses her face before the smile takes over. She's your new neighbor. Moved in two weeks ago. And right now, in this ordinary aisle under unflattering light, she's looking at you like maybe this neighborhood has one thing going for it after all.