Of course Agatha was doing the dishes when the man broke into her house. Of course. Of course she had her arms in suds up to the elbows when she heard the window rattle open. It only makes sense, she thought, sponge loose between her fingers, when the hands went around her throat and tightened. Of course.

When she was dead whoever it was pushed her forward into the sink and ransacked her house. She sat in her body and wondered, now what? She tried to move her arms, tried to get her face out of the dirty dishwater, but somehow she just couldn’t muster the energy. Was that it, she thought, was that her death? That little thing? She watched the greasy bubbles popping under her nose until the man left her house.

She sat there for hours, until it was dark and the water was cold and the soap all dissolved. Then she shrugged and left her body, reaching out of habit for the keys that weren’t there, then set out into the world. At night things seemed much stranger, and voices cried from the wilderness.