Three am and alone at last, praise god! Alone with the raccoons living in the culvert and the coyotes prowling around the lake; the crows have settled for the night, the seagulls are god knows where, and the pigeons are huddled together for safety. But the streets are empty, and all the lights are off in the apartment buildings, save for the regular scattered insomniacs. Carol the Paulian is alone, unwatched, unheard, unremarked, standing in the middle of the street, looking up at the moon, able to breathe fully for the first time in sixteen hours. With each breath she grows larger, unfurls like a flag.
She haunts the parks, the alleyways, the warehouses. Like an owl, she lingers in the waste places. Daytimes, her coworkers mutter about muggings, pursesnatchers, human traffickers, cougars coming down from the mountains. Well, perhaps; the one time she was mugged it was broad daylight in a nice neighborhood. Mostly she sees no one, and the few people she does see are hurrying somewhere on their own business, equally eager to avoid eye contact. She carries a knife in her pocket, not for protection, but merely because a knife is a useful thing to have.