There’s a man with his knees buckled up close to his chest under the sink—hidden behind the waist level doors that hinge on squeaky screws. He’s got a knife, but he’s not going to harm you if you don’t find him. He’s just hiding. Not intent to hurt anyone, but he will kill you if you find him.

     The wooden stairs creak as you descend. His heart sags into a bowl of acidic anxiety. He burns inside with indegestion and his chest jack hammers the closer you not so quietly approach.

     Thirsty for some water you sleepily stumble through the kitchen and stand in front of the fridge for a second or two—bracing yourself for the tiny bulb. At two in the morning twenty watts feels closer to eighty. The fridge unsuctions open and makes long shadows that stretch and diminish into the surrounding darkness.

     The man is sweating—Heart pulsing thick with blood swilling through his veins too fast for comfort.

     The Water is cold. The dry cottoning of sleep washes away. The sink doors squeak. You turn and look at the cabinet doors. One is slightly ajar.

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