Then she asks, "Don't you think it's tragic, the way the lightening flashes before you hear it coming?"
"Marion," I start, but she's staring out onto the street below, quiet-like for the first time since the shaking stopped, and she's speaking in real words now so I just watch her.
She feels cold and thin and breakable as a windowpane, the image on the other side of her obscured by the water that pours down the glass.
"I love this," she whispers.
I don't tell her that it isn't raining.