A depressed woman lives in an apartment that isn’t hers. Her days pass in a haze of sleep and television. Sometimes, her neighbors’ conversations in the courtyard fill the empty rooms with the rare sound of laughter. At one point, her doorknob jiggles. She is terrified at the prospect of an unwelcome visitor, but it’s just a maintenance worker cleaning the knob. Hours and weeks blur together as the woman tries to forget that she needs to look for a new apartment. She meets with a real estate agent, who shows her run-down properties. She returns home and slumps onto the couch. The steady comfort of the television drones out her anxieties. She cries at the artificial emotions on screen. One day, the agent shows the woman a place she likes. She eagerly signs some papers. The woman longs to be tethered again to the city by a lease. Unfortunately, someone else gets the property. The woman drinks heavily, falls asleep, wakes up, and eats. Then, she hears a sound. It seems as if classical music is coming from the radiator. Later, the woman wakes up in front of the television and gets the sense that the newscaster is talking directly to her. While on the highway the next day, she can’t choose which two out of three quarters she should use to pay a fifty cent toll. If such a simple decision is so difficult for her, she’ll have a hard time moving out. These and several other odd instances indicate to the woman that she is mentally disturbed. She hopes she will feel more settled when she finds an apartment. Later that day, the woman wades into the water at a rocky beach. She senses that her general disposition and depression—not just the housing instability—is setting her on edge.