It has considerably worn down over the years, earning indents and lumps and cracks on its surface. My old rubber shoes can easily slot into the indents, placing itself on the bumps. Gradually, I climb.

It hurts to come down.

My feet step towards her door. It is locked, of course, but I force it open. Everything about my body is sore.

I stalk my way through the house, moving quietly as though there would be anyone alive to notice me. It was less tidy than I remember–wires scattered about, pliers, cutters, and tape in random parts of the house. None of that matters to me.