From her eighth-floor vantage, she scans balconies on the building directly opposite hers.
This is her favourite… okay, her only Sunday entertainment… inventing stories to match dramas within her view.
Then there’s some movement.
It’s a small young woman down on the third floor, struggling to pull her tangled oxygen tubing out to her balcony chair. Afternoon sun glints off her hairless skull.
No guesswork there.