She is back. She knows. She won’t say. You cannot ask. You are her. You are her as a child, a little girl. You are atop a large and ornate building–like something that would sit in the center of an old college campus. You inch around the top of it, on the roof. You cling with fingers and bare toes to gutters and shingles and individual bricks. No one is around to see this. And when you fall, you fall into a building, into a cushioned chair in the library. No. No, it only feels like a library–it’s a… hotel? Apartment? Some kind of collective housing? Upstairs the rooms are divided up into dormitories, but the bottom two floors are all shared spaces. There is a series of rooms dedicated to child care–all adjacent bathtubs and a play area like the kind you’d find in a daycare. There is a dining hall, and a cafeteria style line with a kitchen behind it. How to get out?