She gives up on the tap—no doubt when the pipes have finished doing whatever they are doing in the meantime, the airlock will break and she will have water again—and tilts her head, listens to the sound of mice scuttling, or even rats; to the wind tapping at the windows, the opening of the street entrance three floors down and a chill seeping into the flat despite her draught excluder. Hairs rise on her legs. Paranoia whispers that that was a little too much cold air, that this room should be immune unless her front door has been opened. She isn’t sure if that’s true.