Hierarchies - Chapter 1 

It was creepy to talk through the lobby of the apartment building. It wasn't Meg's building, but a sister building in the same complex. The floor plan was identical to hers, which make the differences more pronounced.

This must be what an alternate universe feels like, Meg thought, as she patted her sweatshirt pocket for her laundry room card and headed past the mailboxes for the basement stairway door. The laundry card credit-dispensing machine was the object of her mission, since its counterpart in her own building was out of order.

It's the smells, Meg decided. That's the most jarring difference. The lobby carried a faint musty odor, and now that she had reached the stairwell, a new foreign smell was introduced, some kind of cooking smell she did not care to identify. She couldn't wait to get out of there. At the same time, Meg was fascinated by the power of the effect this was having on her.

The paint was worn from the cement block walls and the painted metal stair rail. Overall, this stairwell was in no greater need of maintenance than its twin in her building, Meg judged, but the patterns of wear were just enough different to attract her notice.

Exiting the stairwell, the laundry room was just where it should be, guarded by a familiar glass door, the kind you see in stores, able to be pushed to open from the inside. But it had an unfamiliar feel as Meg pulled it open; the hinges were tighter, or not so well oiled.

Seeing two residents, one loading a washer and one folding dry clothes, Meg instinctively tried to make eye contact and offer a small neighbor's smile, then stopped. No occasion for that, she thought, they're not my neighbors.

She poked her card into the designated slot in a machine, also located where it was supposed to be, just inside the door, then she slipped in a ten dollar bill. Good, it works, Meg thought, as the machine's LCD screen displayed the recharged value. Now I can quick get out of here and shake this off.