It’s a woman from behind, standing in an open doorway.

Behind her, where she’s come from, the hall is dark — not sinister, just unlit, a corridor with the lights off.

Ahead of her is a street in the middle of the afternoon, with that particular hard gold you get in late September.

She isn’t running.

That was the whole thing, technically — I did the figure eleven times to get it, and I have all eleven — she isn’t fleeing and she isn’t triumphant.

She’s just standing in the door with her weight on both feet, looking out.