At the exact moment that the wind shifts, blowing the clouds suddenly in a northeasternly direction, our heroine is sitting cross legged on top of her counter. She is listening. She pinches clear glass marble s between her fingers, stretches her arm out over the edge of the four foot precipice, asnd carefully releases the transparent sphere. As they strike the cement floor, each marble makes a distinctive sound, subtly different, like the shape of a snowflake or the lines of a fingerprint. It depends on the part of the floor they strike, the individual density of the square centimeter of concrete, and the marble itself, whether or not the marble is an exact sphere or covered in tiny imperfections. There is no point in watching this. She is not going anywhere for a while.
Later... If skipping were a sport, Clio would play professionally. The concrete stings her bare feet as she makes her way to her brother's store. She has nothing what-so-ever to do this morning, she is in an excellent mood, and she has had an idea. If she had been an easy to frighten being, like a white tailed deer in the morning mist, she might have thought twice about this, this venture out of the safety of her alarm protected, florally scented fortress of a store. (It might have been easy to break into, but at least the police would appear immediately as soon as the perimeter was breached.) It seemed no one was around today; this only seemed to encourage her original impressions. But no matter, she knew it was all in her head. She continued on her way the thrift store. Maybe she could kill some time looking for clothes while at this third location...