It was a moonless night. The air felt crisp, refreshed from the recent rain. Malibu waited until just past midnight to leave her apartment, sneaking out the side door. She walked to the cottage on Francisco Street, feeling it was better not to take a car and leave any record of her trip. When she finally arrived, she was tired, but also juiced with adrenaline. She sat on a bench in Russian Hill Park across the street from the sorry-looking cottage. The park was empty, the street was empty, and the city was quiet. A cool breeze blew in from the bay, carrying with it a salty aroma. As a few stars appeared in the sky, Malibu looked at the cottage and felt a certainty in her heart that the building was ready to go. It was asking for someone to end its misery. It wanted to die.
On rubber legs,
