Milly has decorated her cozy living room with Tiki masks and figurines. A closed door stands on the far side, near the couch and desk. Upon a small table lies a scattered jigsaw puzzle. Holographic photos of the desert shine on her wall alongside a framed, printed photograph of an old barn. Another wall mounts a gorgeous red guitar. Faint shadows of dust, guitar-shaped, outline where two more once hung.

Milly pushes open her bedroom door, but there is no bed. Instead, a neatly organized collection of clothes, on racks, fills the room. Her hakama, a uniform for martial arts, dangles from the wall. The closet is just for shoes.

A small, antique .22 rifle leans in the corner. Milly slides her fingers across the glossy black paint of its optical scope. “It’s not the same. Should I sell it?”

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In her youth, Milly spent so much time alone that she began talking to herself.

Hand drifting lower, she pauses on the rifle’s polished wood, then frowns.

Ponder her expressions.

“I was naïve.” Her hand snaps away. “Now foolish. Can’t afford either anymore.”

To guess what she’s thinking, listen.

Milly kicks off her flats into the closet. She fingers riding boots, then running shoes, and then grabs leather sneakers, lacing them up. Shouldering the weight of her bulky motorcycle jacket, Milly taps its concealed bands of bulletproof mesh. She folds a stack of cash into her pocket. Rushing down to the lobby, she catches a taxicab to Capitol Hill.

The best way to figure out what’s on her mind? Watch what she does.

Milly’s story will be told from this perspective: mine.