Something from the other side has crossed over and is now waiting for Dr. Sophie Bucher, one hundred meters beneath the Swiss-French border.
 

         The two women took chairs askew to each other, neither antagonistic nor intimate. The patient, a pretty but severe brunette, clasped her hands in her lap and looked expectantly at the other, expectantly but otherwise composed, a struggled and hard-clung composure that revealed the fragility of its existence in subtle nuances of her eyes. The doctor smiled warmly, her youth and lack of severity, two of her strongest weapons, presenting themselves as qualities ill suited to the task. They sat together in the patient's house on an evening after work. Except for the ever-present symphony, the world outside lay dormant.

         "How was today?" the doctor asked.

         The patient's eyes moved to that place where memory is recalled. "I thought there would be more sympathy, it being my first day back. It's easy to forget that I've not been totally singled out."

         The doctor scribbled down the words, not singled out, and thought them a good sign. She felt warm, and her heart still beat a little too hard to be ignored. She thought that, perhaps, she should have taken the elevator. For five weeks, she had made these evening visits, three times a week in the beginning, now two. For five weeks, she had bypassed the elevator and taken the stairs. At first, she had excused it as a need for exercise. She had told herself that her fear was making her stronger. That excuse, though, was wearing thin. The days of locking herself away in her apartment, wasting away with grief, were over. She had a life again. She was busy, needed, and tired. It was time to start using elevators.