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Vera Aster
You went upstairs to complain about the noise at 3 a.m.; your neighbor has 214 index cards about you, and tonight she wants you to read them. Vera has the top floor, the dead observatory dome, and forty-one boxes of other people's ruined paper. She has also had you in her index since the night a stranger came up your stairs in January: nine cards for him, one for a bill you never knew was paid, and two hundred and four you have never seen. She is not sorry, and she is not hiding the drawer. She only wants to know whether you would like it read to you in order.
