A little while later she grips the doll’s house by its handle, and heads out into the street. She takes a night tram, sitting behind the curl of the rear stairs on the upper deck, looking backwards along the track, feeling everything wrong slip away into the red glow of the rear lights. For the first time in her own memory of herself, she is singing, something wordless and complex that cycles endlessly around itself. Perhaps it is an instinctive camouflage, or a warning to anyone boarding the tram that she’s not looking to share the view. It is almost 4 a.m., and she is going to visit a friend.