The wild sex and loud music neighbors have stopped having sex or playing loud music. Instead, they fight. One of them is a yeller, the other one is a crier. The yeller’s cries erupt in the middle of the night; short, staccato, rage-filled lashes, the final word in each outburst a searing open-ended threat. “Don’t you ever!” He shrieked one night, repeatedly, the ever slashing through the air like a hot knife until it was followed by the sound of things thudding and muffled screams. The crier, when he cries, cries theatrically, for hours. It is all loud gasps, high wails, low sobs and quavering, shaky inhales. I am ashamed to admit that even though I know his crying must be rooted in real suffering the loudness and length of it eventually grates on me. The beating is worse, though. It knots my stomach and my mind up, filling me with gruesome agony. It is not my business, but it is and there have been too many nights now where I wake up, fumbling for my phone, counting the thuds and screams, wondering, with horror, what exactly is going on up there.