Bernadette smiled through her screen door. The high-rise across Rainey street finally got its windows.

Over the sixty years Bernadette had lived there, her little bungalow had settled into the earth, leaning a few degrees north, but so gently had it happened as she’d come and gone each day that she only noticed it now, admiring the reflection of her slanted home in the perfectly plumb grid of new glass.

She patted her chipped door frame and shuffled down to the street, stepping over construction debris, avoiding the gutted houses lining the block.

No, Bernadette would never forget the April when her neighbors all sold out to the developers. Nor would she would believe it when the warm living rooms where they’d played cards on Saturday nights became the hippest bars in the city, or so those neighbors liked to brag.

“Fools,” she chided.

At the end of the street, things felt like they used to. Overgrown, untouched, left alone. Bernadette slipped through a tunnel in the buttonbush and followed a worn path to the river.

Humming some Patsy Cline, she unlaced her dusty boots and walked barefoot to the water’s edge. Bernadette pulled half a crusty baguette from her pocket and tossed it in. “At least you’re still here,” she said as the old red-eared slider floated to the surface.

The turtle gulped at the bread as the sound of a jackhammer puttered over the languid river and Bernadette took a long and easy breath, unbuttoning the top of her blouse, letting the late autumn sun shine on her chest.