In the evening, Juanita stands on the balcony of her fifteenth-floor apartment, clad only in a white Minerva slip. Her bare arms tremble in the autumn breeze and stiffen as she leans against the iron banister, her braided chestnut hair barely lifts off her thin shoulders. The city is spread before her, its lights an intricate web mirroring a twilit sky. Blue eyes shift upwards as clouds begin to gather and the first drops of rainfall hit her face, icy against her warm skin. She retreats slowly through the patio doors, looking back over her shoulder one last time at the darkening sky.