Low knocking wakes me up sometime later. It’s dark now, the room draped in shade, the boxes phantoms that loom around me. The clock beside the bed reads a little after six, but it’s late in the year, it gets dark early. There’s a slight chill to the air that raises tiny pimples on my bare arms, and I burrow beneath the blanket, trying to snuggle into the warmth I felt earlier. My head is foggy, unclear.
The knock comes again, and this time the door knob jiggles against the lock. Still groggy with sleep, I reach out with one leg and try to twist the knob with my toes. It doesn’t work. “Michael?” a voice comes from the other side of the door. It’s Dan.