ROONEY
The room was meant to be quiet and peaceful—if not for the deep, steady breathing coming from the bunk above me.
I lay there, eyes fixed on the underside of the top bunk, as naughty thoughts slowly crept into my mind.
Marge was out cold. I knew the signs—the way her breath hitched slightly before falling into a low, rumbling snore. She’d been at a frat party since noon, coming back smelling like cheap tequila and sweat, stumbling just enough to let me know she was toasted before she climbed onto her bed.
She was a heavy sleeper on a good day. But tonight, it seemed she was practically in coma.
But I couldn't sleep. It was a typical cold winter night, and I was hyper-aware of everything.
The rustle of my sheets felt like sandpaper against my skin because every nerve ending I
