The sound is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, like glass being wiped, or a small dog barking. Emma blinks. Why would anyone be cleaning windows in the middle of the night? A veil of silver-speckled blackness obliterates the nightstand, the dresser, the tall bookcase in the corner. She wonders what day it is, what season it is. Eventually, she remembers; it’s Friday, and it’s still summertime. It has been exactly four weeks since the accident.
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