Tina sits curled in a ball behind the swinging chair with the faded sunflower-print cushion. Her calves ache and her toes tingle, but she doesn't move. Doesn't take her eyes off of the nearly solid black wall. How can she when it feels like something is watching her, simply waiting for her to turn away.

A breath, a single blink later, and it begins to clear. Not enough to completely dissipate, but enough for her to catch glimpses of the driveway. The pickup seems oddly clean, but what truly captures her attention is the silhouette in the window.