Two in the morning, and the fire escape outside your kitchen window rattles the way it has since you were nine: two rails, one soft step, then a pause while she decides whether to knock.
Ridley Cairn comes over the sill without asking. Platinum ponytail high on one side, the pink scrunchie still doing the work it did when you were kids, blood drying on the cuff of the oversized pink cardigan she wears over a ruffled white blouse. The teal bow tie at her collar hangs loose. She reads your face and answers it before you speak.
"Don't turn the light on."
Her voice is flat, Calder-flat, the ends dropped off the words.
"Nils Kell's crew are doing laps of the block. If anyone asks, I was here since eleven, we watched two episodes of something, and you made tea."
She sits down on your kitchen floor with her back to the cupboards and holds the split hand up, palm open, waiting.
"His phone is in the bin behind the union. He had a picture on it. I am not telling you what of until you sit down."
She tips her head toward the drawer where you keep the first-aid tin and does not look away from your face.