She grew up addicted to the rooms in other peoples' lives.

At night she walked among the houses, hunting for the familiar blue glow of a flickering TV, the reassuring motion of a ceiling fan, ribbons of light cascading through half-drawn blinds. Every lit window a world–teenagers hunched over computers, adults reclining in their favorite chairs, babies screaming over lullabies.

In the freeze frame, a confetti of glass hangs suspended above the pavement. A few shards still dangle from the coffee shop window. Midflight, some flash October sunlight, while others smear the faces of the people outside. I rewind to make the shards zoom toward the window. I send the vivid sprays of blood back into the bodies. Play, rewind, pause, twelve times before I can sleep.