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outside the kitchen window. Someone was there, walking across the dried leaves outside. She turned to the window and saw nothing but her reflection, but it felt like somebody was out there. She turned off the water with the bowl only partially full.
    She set it on the counter. The house was quiet as the desert with no wind. She took shallow, silent breaths, as if whoever was out there could hear the blood surging through her veins and the raging sound of air as it rushed in and out of her lungs.
    Something scraped along the side of the house, by the kitchen window. Her heart pounded. She walked backwards, taking baby steps, without picking up her feet. She put her hands behind herself, feeling for the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway. More scraping. She wanted to run, but was frozen. She took a deep breath, fighting back a cough as her asthma kicked up. She tried to hold it back. Her inhaler was by the sink, but the sink was under the window.
    She had another one, but where was it? Her lungs started to spasm. Where was it? She closed her eyes for a flash and tried to picture where she’d seen it last. Ever since she could remember she’d had trouble with words. She always seemed to get the letters mixed up. She compensated by remembering things as pictures. She saw the picture. It was sitting on the TV.
    The muscles in her stomach started to contract. She doubled over and bit her lip, fighting back the coughing spasm. She forced her feet to move. More scraping outside. The person, animal or thing out there was getting closer to the window above the sink. She was afraid to breathe, if she didn’t get the inhaler quick, she might have a full blown attack. She stretched her right arm behind herself, never taking her eyes off the window, finally she felt the door jamb.
    She had no choice. She grabbed a great breath and went into a jerking, gut wrenching, coughing spasm. An attack was close. She reached up and flicked off the light, covering the room in darkness. Then she turned, coughing and holding her hands out in front of herself, because the spasm forced her to keep her eyes squinted shut.
    She felt along wall, till she found the door to the dining room. She stumbled into the table, banging herself in the shins on one of the dining room chairs. She put her hands on top of the table and worked her way around it. If whatever was outside was making any noise, she was drowning it out with her coughing.
    She made her way halfway around the table, then she turned toward the living room, flicking the dining room light off as she passed it. She stumbled and fell over the couch, winding up on the floor. The attack was close. She crawled to the television, fought to get up on her knees, reaching out for the inhaler.
    It wasn’t there.
    Her mother must have moved it.
    Where would she put it?
    The medicine cabinet in the hallway bathroom. That’s where her mother always put the inhalers when she left them lying around.
    The spasm eased up for a second and she crawled over to the end table by the right side of the couch, reached up and turned the lamp off. Now the house was dark.
    She pushed herself off the floor, forcing herself into a bent over crouch with her hands on her knees. She walked bent, coughing and jerking, with her head facing the floor. She remembered to go around the table in the dining room, but she misjudged where the doorway was and bumped into the wall. She flung her arms left and right along it and found the doorway. She moved right and went through it.
    The attack was on her. She felt like she was going to die. She was afraid the inhaler wouldn’t be enough. She might need oxygen. She didn’t have any. She was never without her inhalers. She’d never had a problem, till now, but she’d never been this terrified and worked up before.
    She moved along the wall with her right hand leading the way, feeling for the bathroom door. She wished she would have left her bedroom door open, because then the