An elderly woman swept up cat food with quick swipes of her broom. A buzz sounded and she stepped swiftly out of the kitchen, making sure not to crunch any unswept food.

"Hold on, I'm comin'," she whispered as a second buzz sounded.

"Hello," she asked at her intercom.

"Well, how do you do Margie," a woman said, her voice flailing affably.

"Come on up, Eileen." She walked back to the kitchen and tossed the pile of food into the wastebasket.

"Archibald, you stupid cat," she said as Eileen jingled into the apartment.

'Hey girl, who you talkin' to?'�

'Myself. That damn cat turned it's bowl over again.'�

'You aren't rid of that thing yet?'�

'Nope. I just don't have the heart, Eileen. Here, gimme that coat. I'll go put the kettle on.'� Marge put the coat in her closet. She grabbed her kettle and put it on the stove top. As her pilot light clicked, Eileen walked in.

'Boy, there were some strong fumes out there in the hall.'�

'Oh yeah?'�

'Yeah, smelled like some chemicals. Very odd smell,'� Eileen said. She walked to the living room and took a seat.

'Must be that moron janitor up to something.'�

'That old goat ain't fired yet? The super must have a heart 'bout like yours,'� Eileen said cackling over phlegm.

'We're a pitiful bunch, aren't we? Did I tell you about the Thompson family's boy?'�

'What, little Frederick? What's that boy up to?'�

'His mama caught him growing pot a few weeks ago,'� she said as she poured hot water over two tea bags.

'You're kiddin'!'�

'Nope. He had it sittin' right there on his windowsill.'�

'What happened to that kid? Heck, we used to walk him to church every Sunday.'�

'I don't have a clue, Eileen,'� said Marge as she handed Eileen her tea.

'The more I try to figure it out, the less I know.'� Marge sat across from Eileen, and dipped her tea bag in the steaming water a few times.

'Y'know, Eileen, I'm beginning to smell those fumes.'�

'Yeah. Smells like cat piss, pardon my French.'�

'My my, I'm gonna step out and see what in the world that is.'� She set her tea down, walked to her door and out of the apartment. She heard a little commotion coming from below, and headed down the stairs. She saw the Thompson's apartment door ajar, and Freddie Thompson, with red-orange eyes, being escorted out by police.

'What were you thinking, cooking meth? We're going to have to clear out this whole building,'� said the officer.

'When I smoked it,'� Freddie said in a gravelly whisper, 'It didn't have a smell.'�

Marge rubbed her fingers on her forehead and marched back up the stairs.

'The more I try to figure it out,'� she mumbled to herself, 'The less I know.'�

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