A pounding came on the door in the little community that dreary morning. It took several minutes for anyone to answer, the home's owner no doubt unused to company, particularly so early in the morning. The home's owner was a woman in her late thirties, wearing a worn flannel and a pair of sweatpants, scratching at her eyes. “Can I help you?” She asked, her tongue swirling in her mouth, trying to wipe away all the bile. She was not used to being awake so early, not anymore at least. “Mrs... Walsh, is it?” the knocker asked. “Not since the divorce,” she said sarcastically. “Miss Walsh.” “Yes.”