The following night, I find myself in Grant’s bed. His sheets smell just like him—clean and earthy, reminding me of the night air right after a brutal storm. Unfortunately, the storm outside still rages, with no promise of letting up anytime soon.
Memories of that fateful night flash with every bolt of lightning, totally wreaking havoc on any sense of calm I’ve achieved. I’m too old to be afraid of the dark, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am. I see death and destruction lurking in its shadows, and panicked feelings claw up my throat, tightening it like a noose. I should have outgrown this anxiety by now, and I’m ashamed that I haven’t.
In the echo of each c***k, I can still hear the phone ringing, the one next to the fridge in my family’s kitchen. Then I hear the hurried shuffle
