He’s between two solar panels, crouched down or seated, hooded. If she sees him, he must certainly see her. Like a gargoyle he waits there, and for a moment Rachel thinks that must be what he is, something the Kitsune children made together, an art project to decorate the roof, a papier-mâché something to fool passersby, like the plastic owls that spook pigeons away. It’s not that, though. The building is just two stories tall, close enough that Rachel can see the pulse of breath under his hooded garment. Is that possible? It seems so, alone at night. For a moment it, the man, looks perched to leap down upon her, and Rachel strains for what to do besides perish here, on a foolhardy walk, a foolhardy victim. But then she watches it rise to an upright position and walk carefully to the edge—and then, terrifyingly, the man’s body swings itself off and begins to climb down the drainpipe, steady and with very little creaking. The arms move wide and slender, as if the man were swinging from tree to tree. Rachel steps out of the circle of light and runs, runs. She runs past the lobby of the Victorian, empty but lit, and considers hurrying up the creaky-looking steps to pound on the glassy doors, but she’s seen that movie too: cornered against a building, or the man on the roof is harmless but past the doors is a pack of violent cannibals.