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He showed up three days later with a small drill, a squeeze bottle of defogging solution, and a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He worked quietly, carefully—drilling holes no bigger than a pinprick, flushing out the moisture with a solution that smelled faintly of vinegar, then suctioning it dry. He inserted tiny valves—clear plastic, almost invisible—to let the space breathe.

"Arlene, is that you?" The voice on the line was familiar—gravelly, warm, with the accent of someone who'd spent forty years in this town. Bob Hargrove. He'd installed the windows herself back in '09, after her husband died. "Double pane repair? Sure, sometimes. Depends on the damage."

"Won't be perfect," he said, wiping the glass with a microfiber cloth. "But it'll be clear."

Arlene drove home, the question still rattling in her chest. Probably wasn't an answer.