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Michette

In a thirty-story apartment building, the pipes never stop singing. That many faucets mean somebody’s always got one open, or a dishwasher, or a leaky toilet. The water vibrates as it moves. Sound carries a long way in water, and in cylinders.

Michette has a stethoscope to the big push line in the west half of the complex, listening. Most of it’s white noise–her ears will get used to that. Somewhere behind it is the voice she needs. Lana’s voice.

She finds herself wondering about the building: why thirty stories? Make a skyscraper or don’t, but thirty is half-assing it.

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