"Carla?"A male voice.Quiet.Familiar."It's Timothy.From next door."
Timothy.
Not Randall.Not one of Randall's buddies.Just my neighbor who apparently doesn't sleep either.
"I heard you through the wall," he says."Are you okay?"
I stare at the door, gun in hand, trying to decide what to do.
I could pretend I'm not here.Ignore him until he goes away.
But he knows I'm awake.He heard me.
And part of me, the stupid part that wanted him to follow me home from Walmart, wants to open the door.
I set the Glock on the coffee table and cross to the door, starting to work the locks.Deadbolt.Chain.Doorknob.My hands are shaking so badly it takes two tries to get the chain off.
When I pull the door open, he's standing there in jeans and a gray T-shirt.He looks tired.Worried.
His eyes drop to the Glock on my coffee table, then back to my face.He doesn't look surprised.
"Bad dream?"he asks.
I nod.My throat is too tight to speak.
"Can I come in?"
I should say no.Should tell him I'm fine and send him back to his own apartment.
But I don't.
I step back, and he walks inside.
I close the door but don't lock it yet.I need the option of kicking him out if this goes sideways.
He looks around my apartment like he's cataloging everything.The stack of library books on the coffee table.The blanket wadded up on the couch.The mug of tea I made earlier and forgot to drink.
"You want to sit?"he asks, nodding toward the couch.
I shake my head.Sitting feels wrong.Too vulnerable.
He doesn't push.He just stands there, solid and calm, and I hate how much better I feel with him in the room.
"How bad are they?"he asks after a moment.
"What?"
"The nightmares."
I cross my arms over my chest.I'm wearing an old Marines tank top and sleep shorts, and I'm suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing.How exposed I am.
"Bad enough."
"Every night?"
"Most nights."
He nods like this makes sense.Like he gets it.
