She went out the window one morning, when he went to get the paper. He’d established a routine and she watched it faithfully, followed it; it seemed he was less agitated when she did.
All the same, she watched him stutter her name, watched him flinch from her nearness, watched him open bottle after bottle of whisky, only to drink alone.
The rusted steel escape was easy enough; it was built to do exactly what she did with it — get away from the fire.
She carefully shut the window behind her; the days were getting cool, and he hated that.
