Leaving the equipment in the hallway Bertha steps into the suite and scopes the area.

Suite 48, her age. The blinds have been shut, so she walks across the room and pulls them open; the room lights up, revealing dust particles in the sallow sunshine air. She switches on the fan, to air it out a bit. Bertha used to wish she could open the windows to let some fresh air in, but now she knows better. (“It fucks up the whole circulation” – her boss, chewing away on nicotine gum – “and the airplanes. They’re too loud and they smell. That’s why,” and she would tap on the glass demonstratively, “we sealed them. Deal with it, Bertha.”)

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