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One day Lana disappeared from sight, sound and the written word; she became involuntarily invisible. She’s pretty sure it’s some kind of lame metaphor.

She can’t find many ways to enjoy it besides theft and voyeurism, and she was never really a locker room girl. Loneliness aches at her. She needs a project.

Every morning Lana steals breakfast from Pret and fresh spraypaint from the hardware store, then rides up to some random apartment and leans out. The building’s facade is nearly a solid mass of her graffiti now. I’m Still Here, it says, in letters that aren’t letters. Please Remember.


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.