Bloor Line, perhaps to the end of the line.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with large, hoop earrings and short hair she pulls at for height, wearing low slung dress pants, white tank top and black suit jacket, a chain dangling from her belt to her side pocket.

Mouthing the Words, Camilla Gibb (Pedlar Press)

Page 166:

People don't understand dead. They think it is all or nothing. I used to move between live and dead several times in the course of a day. Sometimes the transition was as brief and unremarkable as a sigh or a sentence.

She stands in the stream of hot water, sudsing the bar of soap, her arms braced against her breast. Her stomach flutters, she pushes harder, the hiccups in her chest growing into full anxiety. She hasn't had any coffee in months, she exercises, she eats well, plenty of vegetables. She's just standing in the shower. He's sleeping an extra fifteen. Her tea sits on the bathroom counter, cooling. It's finally sunny. There's no reason for this. She puts her arms by her side and watches, the steady thumping punching against the thick of her belly. She exhales slowly and tells her body it's her turn now. She runs the show. She holds her breath and waits, not afraid that it takes one step closer to death to calm her.