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Summary
She's not safe - she'll never be safe from Fisk, but she'll still slide the latch on the chain at eye level, and she'll pull the curtains tight to block out the sun.
The bed squeaks, and the sheets are stale from sitting idle. Karen places her gun beneath a pillow and holds onto it, finding solace in the weight and how her thumb rests against the grip. That deadbolt is another warm blanket to the thought that for maybe just a moment, she can be lucky.
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Karen runs.
She figures running will protect everyone she loves, if Fisk is after her.
She wasn't expecting to run right into Frank.
Not in the middle of the night.
Not in the middle of fucking nowhere.