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“It was when I was twelve, thirteen,” I said and thought back. “Also when I fourteen, fifteen. And up.”

“So, all through your teenage years?”

“I guess so. I was really tired of moving around all the time and I thought that going away to boarding school would be…” What was the best way to describe how I had built it up in my mind? “I thought it would be the absolute pinnacle of happiness, heaven. I thought it would solve my problems,” I said. “But it was really hard to try to catch up on the years of learning that I had missed. I was overwhelmed. It was hard to be away from my mom, too. A lot of things had changed and shifted as I grew up, like where we lived and all the people around us, but my mom was always a constant. We were always together and then I was alone.”

She had seemed to deal with it a lot better than I had, because she had immediately headed to Canada (where I had never been able to go, since I didn’t have a passport) and had tried to start a caribou feeding institute there. Canadian authorities had not appreciated her efforts (and neither had the animals) and they had deported her.

“You get used to things,” Oliver noted. “Even if they’re not the best, or even if they absolutely suck.”

“You’re right. So, if you don’t like the Milaflores Building, you should go,” I told him. That was great advice, even if I didn’t really want him to follow it.

We hurried from the parking garage to our building because by now, it was absolutely freezing. “Mrs. McGlothen said that you went to college in Michigan,” he said. “You didn’t get used to the weather?”

“Was she talking about me?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Completely without prompting, spontaneously.”

“I didn’t go out very much,” I explained. “I took a lot of online classes and had food delivered. Once I started my business, I could work from my room and I hardly ever had to leave. I was more…sequestered. From the weather, I mean.”

The beautiful lobby was a lot warmer than the outside, if not quite warm enough for me. We took the stairs together and he opened the door to my floor. “Do you want to go for a run tomorrow morning?” he asked.

“Sure,” I agreed. It seemed like we were back on friendly terms, and I was very glad. Once I was inside my apartment, I made myself go into the kitchen and I looked at the sink. I had been thinking a lot about it during my driving lesson, as Mr. Marchand had repeatedly ordered me to pay attention and then told a terrible story involving a motorcycle rider becoming permanently encased in the concrete of Hart Plaza because she hadn’t watched where she was going.

I needed to turn on the water. I needed to determine if what I suspected was really happening, or if it was only dust. Or maybe steam—it could have been steam! I needed to check, just to be sure, and I was probably wrong.

I reached and turned the knob on the wall above the sink.

Oh. Oh, no. I had been expecting to hear the music but now I saw something, too. I definitely heard the man singing and I got a few more words as the sound seemed to ebb and flow, louder and softer. But that wasn’t the problem.

There was something in the air. In the shower this morning, I had blamed it on my contacts and when I’d brushed my teeth, I had said to myself that it was water vapor. It could have been steam from the old heaters or maybe dust.

It wasn’t. I watched it rise up toward the ceiling and it glimmered. It sparkled. I reached out but then drew my hand back. No, I had to try to touch it, so I tentatively stretched my fingers forward…and I couldn’t feel anything. I looked at my skin and there was nothing on it.

I couldn’t sleep very well that night as I wondered what I should do. I did have the appointment with my therapist in a few days and I would bring up this new phenomenon with her. She’d been insightful about my issues from the past, getting me to recognize how sad I’d been, for example. But so far, she hadn’t been very helpful about the music. What was she going to say if I told her that I was now watching glitter rise through the air? What was I going to do about this?

The next morning, rather than waiting in the lobby for Oliver as we’d planned, I loitered in his hallway well before the time we had scheduled to meet. He finally opened his door and was surprised to see me.

“Kat. I didn’t know that you were out here.”

“Could you do me a favor?”

“Uh, sure. What do you need?” he asked.

“I need to come in.” I walked forward and he did move to the side. “I need to know if this is happening everywhere,” I called over my shoulder. “Is it a building problem? Is it a ‘me’ problem? Am I crazy? That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

I stood in front of his kitchen sink, vaguely noticing that he did have a nicer refrigerator than what Carmen had in her apartment and what I had in mine. But my main focus was his faucet.

“I’m going to turn this on,” I said.

“Kat—”

I reached for the knob and as soon as the water poured out, I heard the music.

I’ll be loving you, always…

The man’s voice was still going and the words were a little louder—clearer. I saw the glitter, too, little specks of silver and gold rising up. I reached through it to stop the water.

“Damn,” I said. “It’s getting worse. I think that I’m really crazy. I could move away from here, but will this follow me? It’s in my head.”