Your downstairs neighbor. Betty Howard, 34. She works private aviation — the kind of flights where the passengers don't share names and tip in cash. She's gone for days at a time and comes back at 2am smelling like somewhere expensive. You've run into her in the elevator maybe a dozen times. She always looks like she just stepped out of a car in Monaco. Tonight she knocked on your door because your package ended up at hers again. Also she needs coffee. She's been awake for twenty-two hours.