Marcus Reed stood frozen at his kitchen sink, a coffee mug going cold in his hand, staring through the rain blurred window at the woman across the alley, and he didn't even realize he'd stopped breathing. He'd been watching her for 4 minutes straight. He knew because the microwave clock hadn't moved in his mind. Time had just stopped. She was laughing at something on her phone, her head thrown back, completely unaware of him.

And then, like the universe decided Marcus had been invisible long enough, she looked up straight at him. Neither of them moved. Then she slid her window open, leaned on the frame, and said something that would quietly rearrange the rest of his life. The morning Marcus Reed turned 35, he woke up at 4:47 a. m. to the sound of his daughter crying in the next room. Not the sharp, startled cry of a nightmare.

The slow, soft kind, the kind she tried to keep quiet because she didn't want to worry him. He was already in her doorway before he was fully awake. Ava. He crossed the small room in three steps and sat on the edge of her bed. Hey, talk to me.

She was curled into herself, face pressed into the pillow, her tight braids loose from sleep. 8 years old and already trying to carry things alone. He didn't know where she learned that. Then again, maybe he did. I dreamed about mama, she whispered.

Marcus didn't say anything for a moment. He just put his hand on her back, slow and steady. What happened in the dream? She was in the kitchen making pancakes, the ones with the blueberries. Ava's voice cracked on the last word and I tried to hug her and she just she wasn't there anymore like smoke.

He pulled her upright and held her against his chest. She didn't fight it. She was small and warm and real. And he focused on that on the fact that she was here, that he was here while the ache in his chest did whatever it was going to do. I know, he said, because what else was there?

Do you still dream about her, daddy? He looked at the wall above her bed. Denise had painted the little mural there herself, the one with the stars and the half moon and the bird that was supposed to be a robin, but looked more like a confused pigeon. She'd laughed so hard at herself that night. Called it her masterpiece, said Ava would be embarrassed by it when she was a teenager.

Denise had been dead for 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days. "Yeah, baby," he said. "I still dream about her." Ava eventually fell back asleep with her hand tucked in his. Marcus sat in the dark for another 20 minutes.

Not because he thought she'd wake up again, but because leaving felt like it required energy he wasn't sure he had. By 5:30, he was in the kitchen dressed for work eating a bowl of cereal he didn't taste over a sink full of last night's dishes. The window above the sink looked out over the narrow alley that ran between their building and the brick wall of the one next door. 6 ft of space, maybe seven, enough for a fire escape on either side and not much else. He'd lived in this apartment for 6 years.

He knew that alley like he knew his own face, the rust stain on the drain pipe. the way pigeons argued on the ledge every morning around 6. The particular way the street lamp below flickered every third night, like it was thinking about giving up. What he was not used to was the fire escape on the opposite side being occupied. The woman who moved in 2 weeks ago had done something with the space that he still wasn't sure how to process. She'd put out plants, not just a couple, a whole row of them in mismatched pots, herbs, and small flowering things, and one tall, leggy succulent that she'd propped against the railing.

She'd hung a string of warm Edison bulbs along the iron bars, the kind that didn't require any outlet Marcus could figure out solar, maybe, and they glowed soft amber. Every evening, he had stood at this window for 6 years, watching nothing. Now he kept noticing light. He rinsed his bowl, checked the time, and told himself to stop thinking about it. The CTA busyard on the south side started its day at 6, and Marcus was usually one of the first mechanics through the gate.

He liked it that way. He liked the smell of diesel and iron, the specific hush of a space before it got loud, the feeling of knowing exactly what his hands were supposed to do. His supervisor, a heavy set man named Gerald, who'd been working buses since Reagan was president, found him under bay 7 by 6:15. You eat anything besides coffee this morning? Cereal?

That's not food, Reed. That's beige. Gerald, I'm just saying, man needs protein. Gerald crouched down beside the lift and handed him a wrench he hadn't asked for, which meant he was about to say something that required an offering. How's the girl?

She's fine. Uh-huh. How are you? Marcus came out from under the chassis and sat up. Gerald was watching him with that expression he'd been wearing for 3 years.

A combination of genuine concern and deep personal discomfort with the situation which Marcus actually appreciated more than people who knew exactly what to say. I'm fine, Gerald. You're 35 today. I'm aware. You doing anything?

Taking Ava to that pizza place she likes? That's it. That's enough. Gerald looked like he had more to say, but chose the rare path of wisdom and let it go. He patted the side of the bus like it was a horse and walked back toward the office.

Marcus went back under bay 7. This was his life and he had made his peace with it. That was what he told himself anyway. And most days he mostly believed it. Ava was waiting for him on the front stoop when he got home that evening, backpack still on, talking to someone he didn't immediately recognize.

Then he did. The woman from across the alley was crouched down at Ava's eye level. The two of them apparently deep in a conversation about something that had Ava gesticulating with both hands, the way she only did when she was fully invested. The woman was laughing that same headthrown back laugh he'd glimpse through the window. Up close, she was different than he'd expected.

Not in the way that people are disappointing up close, in the way that makes you realize you hadn't actually seen them at all. She had a natural warmth that wasn't performed. The kind that just lived on her face without trying. She looked up when he reached the bottom step. "You must be Marcus," she said.

"Ava talks about you constantly." He looked at his daughter. "Is that right?" Ava shrugged without shame. "I told her you were the best mechanic in Chicago."

"Second best," he said automatically. "Terrence in Bay 4 has me beat on transmissions. The woman laughed again, stood up, and extended her hand. Sophia Carter, I just moved into 4B across the alley. Her handshake was firm, direct.

Marcus Reed 4A. She knows Daddy. Ava said patiently. I figured, Sophia said. Ava's been giving me the full tour.