She takes the elevator down to parking level 3. When the door opens the area is dim. The fluorescent lights are dusty from years of vehicle exhaust. The colors of the cars are simultaneously dull and harsh. Like dead fish floating at the water’s edge. All their vibrancy is leached, but their edges are sharper in the air than underwater. Her footsteps echo sharply as she wades into pale gray seascape. There’s no staccato. She’s not wearing heels, but she’s not wearing soft shoes either. Leather soles. Soft boots with metal heel or toecaps. There’s a jingle as she takes keys out of the shoulder bag. Not many on the keyring: three or four at most. It’s small. The entire keyring fits in the palm of her hand, and warms as she holds them. She approaches a sensible compact blue-gray Toyota. She inserts the keys in the trunk lock; deposits her shoulder bag; removes a small greenish brown camouflage backpack. After she closes the trunk she opens the driver side door. As she seats herself behind the wheel, she tosses the backpack on the passenger seat. There’s no clutter or dirt marring the interior. It’s as clean and impersonal as a rental. The keys go in the ignition, the car starts, she checks her rearview mirror and backs out of the space. She puts the car in drive and edges forward. The signs overhead indicate the exit is ahead as she steers her car up the gradual incline toward daylight.

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