Jo had noticed the single mother and child in Window 8D talking about something (in Jo’s window codex, 8D meant eighth floor, room D, or fourth window from the left). From what she could tell, nothing was out of the ordinary, and she watched with an impassive, disinterested look upon her face. The mother, whom Jo called Evil Mother 2 (the first being her own), was angry. She had one hand resting on a cocked hip, and the other hand expressively pointing and shaking and gesturing at her son who could be no more than ten years old. The son, Jo had named Poor Child in 8D. Jo always became uncomfortable as she witnessed Evil Mother 2 gesture so angrily at her son. Jo continued to watch to see if it would turn into something bigger. Poor Child sat on their couch, first taking his mother’s banter light-heartedly, so it seemed, obviously used to the constant unhappiness shown by his mother, but as the conversation progressed, Jo saw that the poor child became less and less interested. Jo knew the feeling, and as she watched the child kick his feet together and look out the window, Jo swore she saw his eyes pierce into her own. His head suddenly snapped up to look at his mom. He nodded enthusiastically, probably agreeing to never make a mess again. Evil Mother 2 stepped in front of Jo’s view of the boy, threw her hands in the air and then on her hips. Poor Child leapt off the couch and darted out of sight. The mother ran after, and Jo thought the boy would probably lock himself in his room until his mom calmed down. Jo decided to keep a wary eye on 8D tonight. Jo could spend hours watching the various inhabitants of the apartment building across the street. Jo was twenty-three and single. Her work was her life, her hotel guests and co-receptionists just daily social challenges. If Jo had it her way, she would work from home and not have to answer to any manager, nor listen to anyone complain about wrinkled sheets or warm bottled water that is ridiculously overpriced (although Jo totally agreed). She wouldn’t have to deal with Mr. I-walk-with-stick-up-my-ass who asked her weekly if they could “go out, have a drink, make out
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