It is cool in the chimney where she ducks out to smoke, cool and dappled with sunlight. She hasn’t met anyone else hiding out there, but Cicerone knows she isn’t alone; they leave pieces of jewelry, shiny stones, scraps of paper with bad poetry behind for her. She scrawls a graceful cursive f on the wall in recognition, using the smear of ashes and tobacco left on her fingers, every time the same long loving letter.

She can hear, but not see, the birds nesting at the top of the chimney, hear, but not see, falling water. She sweats freely, easily in the half-shadow, leaning heavily on the red iron railing. The chimney goes down into darkness; Cicerone likes to stare down into it until she’s dizzy.

She stretches her cigarettes out, since they can’t be replaced once the pack gives out. She remembers more plentiful times, runs her fingers down the curve of the f in hope of forgetting.