Not survivable, not for her, not today.

The neighboring balcony — 2C, the Petrossians, who were in Yerevan every April and had been for nine years — was thirty-one inches away across a gap, with a shared masonry ledge running between them, six inches deep, at floor level.

She had watched a repairman step across that gap two summers ago without holding on to anything.

She had eleven days of surgical incision in her abdominal wall and a doctor’s voice in her head saying nothing heavier than a full kettle.

She looked at the gap for a long time.