I'm unraveling a secret, though it's clear she wants to keep it. She hasn't said a word since she arrived. She just appeared from nowhere. Long coat and scraggy hair, wrapped around her face to try and hide. Halfway through the day, I see her talking to my mathematics teacher. I scope the notes under her nose. She says she's got a use for finding out the length of a hypotenuse. She says it's harmless, I suppose. Pythagoras would be ashamed of her if he knew how she abused his theories. The square of A plus B adds up to square of C. 22 feet of ladder hit the window perfectly. And I know why; I think she's a spy. I think she's going to spy on me. I think she's a spy, but between you and I, I have no idea what she wants to see. Friday night she's walking right behind me. Sunday I think she's in the trees. But I don't see a trace of her all day. Monday, looking through my night-scope, I see her talking on the telephone. I can guess what she will say. Alexander Graham Bell wouldn't really take it well if he knew how she abused his machine. They relay her voice to the agency of her choice, but there's no way I'm going to let her get the best of me, because you see: Chorus. I've been watching everything you do just to try and find the truth. I can see past your disguise. I know what it means to be alone, and she's not alone. There's something going on behind those eyes. Chorus.