I lie on my mattress, stare at the beams that cross the ceiling, and listen. Heavy boots stomp up the stairs—McBane? Coby? They get halfway before an angry shout stops them in mid-step, and then I hear the sound of a body thrown against the wall, the crack of wood as the banister snaps, a hoarse, startled cry that ends in a wet crunch far below. Through the attic window, the sound of tinkling glass carries in on the damp wind. A scuffle outside knocks over the chain of motorbikes—from here they sound like aluminum foil crumpling as they fall. Someone shakes one of the bikes free from the others and the engine roars to life before whining away into the distance, gone. Another bike follows, two more, then silence.
Silence.
It settles over me like snow, that gentle and amazing, that still.
