She strained to hear. If Winnie was in the kitchen looking out at the work, then Juno could slip out of the closet and make the three steps to the front door. And what if someone does see you, one of the workers, or a cop—can you outrun them? Juno flexed one of her feet and felt pain roll up to her hip. Movement equaled pain, and while some days were better than others, it seemed that the exertion of reaching the closet would now prevent her from being able to run from it. She reached one hand behind her to the wall and leaned her weight there as she tried to catch her breath. Goddamn if this wasn’t the most foolish, ass-hearted plan. She hadn’t been thinking straight, a lapse in judgment. Juno felt like she couldn’t breathe. But you can, she told herself. She said it in the same authoritative voice she used on her patients. She placed a hand over her heart and counted the beats, counted her breathing. Her vision swayed in and out of focus. Juno focused on the hand that wasn’t on her heart, the one that was still braced against the back of the closet wall. Feel it, she told herself, it’s rough and warm. Count your breathing.

When it was over and the worst had passed, she hugged her arms around herself, shaking now from exhaustion and cold. She was clear of mind and furious at herself, but, though she was thirsty and light-headed, she could do nothing but wait. Winnie had the front door open, and for a moment Juno thought she would leave, but then the sound of more voices joined her, children’s voices.

“Sorry about all the construction.” This was Winnie’s voice, calling this to someone outside the door. Juno flinched as feet pounded into the house and up the stairs. Another voice—female—said something to Winnie from a distance, and Winnie laughed. Juno couldn’t see it, but she could picture it: a parent idling on the curb in their car. Parking was impossible on the slanted streets of the city.

“Yeah, if you text me, I can send him out tomorrow, so you don’t have to try to park.” There was a response Juno couldn’t hear, and then the door slammed shut. Winnie’s heels began to clack away, and Juno tensed her body, ready to sprint if she got the chance. Two minutes later the doorbell rang again, and this time the voice was right outside the door.

“Roman, take off your filthy sneakers! Don’t! No, leave that with me…” And then, after a swift goodbye, more clattering of feet on the stairs above Juno’s head. The voice came back, this time without the parental lilt; this was the voice of a woman who’d seen too little time for herself. “God, you’re a saint for having them over. What time tomorrow…?”