While I’m humming the Doofenshmirtz Evil Incorporated theme, a solid knock on my door sends my heart careening into my throat.
I only gulp it back down when a gruff, “I know you’re in there,” follows.
Samson.
Samson.
Here? Now?Why?
Pitter patters consume me, and I recall that I am a mess, and my house is a mess, and I don’t even knowhowto properly bathe, much less wash my clothes or sheets. I exist insqualor. I’m a pathetic peasant who can’t take care of herself, and he’s a mature adult who takes care of not only himself but also a bunch of animals.
“I’m coming in.”
Shoving my glasses on my face, I launch to my feet just in time for Samson to open my door, see me and my slew of chests, and balk.
My throat tightens. “I…hello.”
“…hi.”
I wet my lips. “I…am a hoarder.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I…” Tears choke me. “I don’t know.”
He swipes a hand down his mouth as his gaze skims my slew of item receptacles again. “What do you do when you get a new chest? Just drop it wherever?”
In my defense, they are heavy, and I have to dump them out of my backpack, which is very stupid, awkward, not-exactly-game design. I’d write the dev, but, well, the last thing I need to do is peeve off God. I sniffle. “Maybe?”
“Are they even organized?” He pins me with a deafeningly serious expression. “At all?”
I bite my lip. “No…”
He blows out a breath.
Cowering, I whisper, “Why are you here?”
“Hadn’t seen you for days.” He angles himself in the middle of the two chests nearest the door, looking between them. “Got worried.”
Worried? About me?
It’s tempting to hope that means something, but I’m almost positive the only emotion this man has felt toward me has been disconcerting concern mixed with distrust. He was worried that I’d skipped out, like he threatened me not to do. That’s all.
He cuts his fingers through his dark hair. “Why are all five of your chests set up like a sloppy triangle? None of them are even centered with each other. How did you do this?Whydid you do this?”
Because.
Because I am a failure, Samson.
That’swhy.
My lip juts.
His eye twitches. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Please…please don’t cry.”
