Each night she crossed back across the bridge. It was a vivid reminder that her days were spent on an island, a mere visitor to the greatest city of them all. A momentary glance from the Brooklyn Bridge to Lady Liberty inspired the strength she would need to do it again tomorrow.

Once home, she sat in solitude on the roof of a her three-story building, a bottle of wine at her side. She watched the city turn its lights on. Apartment by apartment the night took shape. It was time again for drum practice two buildings down. Airplanes flew low overhead, making their ways to LaGuardia or JFK, she couldn’t tell which, nor did she care much. Pockets of light erupted from all angles, but mostly the night stayed black. Black and quiet. From her vantage point only backs of the buildings were visible — the underbellies — and life appeared different here. Vulnerable somehow. Soon without realizing when, the sun was gone. An unseen observer, she sat a moment longer and left.