Miranda made it as far as her laundry room, located just off the garage that was a mirror image of the man next door–she hadn’t even gotten his name, before the panic attack came. She slumped down in front fo the washer and focused on breathing in and out, even as her vision closed and her heart raced in her chest.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there pushing air in and out of her lungs before she could reliably move her limbs again. She hadn’t had one in months; almost long enough to forget h...