Early in the morning, the doorbell of my residence begins to ring incessantly, prompting a grunt of annoyance at the persistent sound. I cast a glance at the clock on my bedside table, which indicates that it is eight o'clock. In my opinion, this is far too early. Ivy seems to share my sentiment, as she shifts restlessly on the air mattress positioned beside my bed, attempting to evade the bothersome noise.
The previous evening, we had engaged in conversation until it was too late for her to return home. Fortunately, I have an emergency drawer filled with clothes for her use. Having been friends for nearly a decade, it is only natural for us to consider each other's homes as our own.
Reluctantly, I rise from the warmth of my sheets, aware that my father likely left for work about half an
