Someone knocked timidly on his front door, waking Cillian from a fitful sleep. He rolled over, ignoring his visitor. But the person at the door would not give up and continued to pound, getting louder with each knock.
Weak from hunger and cursing, Cillian drug himself out of bed and stumbled to the door.
How long have I been here? What day is it?
He wanted to punch the person for interrupting his self-imposed exile.
When he flung the door open, he found his friend Hamel, the chandler’s son, on the stoop.
“Cill, what is wrong with you?” Hamel sounded both concerned and annoyed. “Nobody has seen you for days. You look awful!”
Cillian stepped back from the door, leaving it open for Hamel.
“What have you been doing in here?” Hamel said, stepping inside. He wrinkled his nose at the stenc
