At 1:17 a.m., something heavy scraped across the ceiling.
Valerie opened her eyes.
Around her wrist, the bracelet felt her pulse quicken.
The new neighbors had moved in fifteen days earlier. Since then, Valerie had developed a routine.
On the third night, she decided she would speak to them.
On the fifth, she decided she would email the landlord.
On the eighth, she decided she would move.
By morning, the decisions always became less urgent.
Perhaps they were still unpacking.
Perhaps the building had thin floors.
Perhaps moving because another person owned furniture was an overreaction.
Tonight, the scraping reached one end of the room, paused and began again in the opposite direction.
Valerie lay awake and decided, once again, that she was leaving.
By breakfast, sunlight filled the kitchen. Her plants looked pleased. The rent was reasonable. The subway was close.
Valerie did nothing.