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minute to myself. I sleep some nights at the office, in my chair.”
    â€œBut you’ll try and make the time?”
    â€œI mean…yes, I will. I’m sure this whole suit is a total nightmare for him.”
    â€œYou don’t even know the half of it.”
    Back at the office, Rebecca took a toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste from her desk and went to the bathroom. Staring into the mirror above the sink, she brought the floss between her crooked front teeth, taking note of her face. The severely tired dark eyes were a frightful sight of rapid aging and distress. The long black hair had been neglected for months. Her skin was flaky, her neck streaked with red marks from nervous scratching. She washed her face. Beneath long fingers, the roughness of her cheeks provided yet another reason to wince.
    After work, she changed into running clothes and jogged three miles through Central Park. She stretched afterward, in a yoga class. Back at her apartment, she took a bath. The hot water and green-tiled walls and the closed bathroom door quieted the part of her mind that could not stop going even in exhaustion. She put a wet cloth over her eyes. There was a glass of red wine on the sink, and, stepping out of the bath a moment later, she drank the wine down fast.
    Tonight I’ll sleep , she told herself.
    In bed, however, she was restless. The sheets pricked at her. The pillow lumped at her neck. Rebecca hung a sock over the red light of the alarm clock, but she could still feel the growing lateness of the hour. How much longer would she lie frustrated like this? When would she give up on sleep? At some point, it was only logical to get out of bed, turn on the lights, and submit to insomnia.
    And so she did.
    The blue jeans and black sweater at the top of the hamper were clean enough, and she pulled herself into the clothes and went down the hall with a bottle of red wine to see her neighbor, Gertrude Fish. It was almost 1:30 a.m., but Gertrude kept odd hours. You couldn’t expect her to be up before noon, yet in the middle of night she was exuberant, chirping, and a little mad. Through the door, Rebecca could hear the old woman sanding wood. Rebecca rang the bell twice. It was after the third attempt that Gertrude chortled, then screamed, “Who is it!”
    â€œIt’s Rebecca.”
    â€œRebecca? Oh. Hi. Yes.”
    The door opened, and Gertrude removed her white medical mask and purple latex gloves and ordered her neighbor inside.
    From the foyer, Rebecca saw furniture in the process of being constructed and finished pieces yet to be picked up by Gertrude’s clients, as well as books and more books stacked in tall piles on the floor. The classical radio station was playing an Ives symphony. Gertrude made Rebecca sit in a chair covered in sawdust. There was a sinister quality to Gertrude’s face. Short, tangled gray hair capped her five-foot frame. Her midsection had the slope and broadness of an old cash register. She wore a black turtleneck, brown corduroy pants, orthopedic shoes. It was her work outfit. She was working. Gertrude maintained a woodshop in her apartment, her style simple and attractive, functional. The noise generated from her electric saws and sanders, coupled with the toxic stains and finishes whose odors wafted into the hallway, didn’t help Gertrude’s status in the building. The co-op board had tried to put a stop to her operation many times. They threatened eviction. She bribed board presidents, not with cash—she didn’t have much of that—but with the refurbishing of a rocking chair, the construction of a child’s bed, a side table, an outdoor bench. They were astonished by Gertrude’s skill at carpentry. Met throughout her life with low expectations—by her mother and father, in particular—Gertrude was used to this kind of treatment.
    When Rebecca moved into her apartment three years before, a neighbor had warned her to stay away