The hallway carpet tasted of dust and neighborly neglect.
Noah woke up to the sound of a deadbolt sliding back. Click. Thud.
He peeled his face off the welcome mat. His neck cracked. His right shoulder—the one he had dislocated and slammed back into place twelve hours ago—throbbed with a dull, sickening heat.
The door opened.
Sarah stood there. She was dressed for work: sharp blazer, crisp blouse, badge clipped to her belt. She held a travel mug of coffee. She didn't offer him any.
"Get up," she said. Her voice wasn't angry. It was exhausted.
Noah scrambled to his feet, favoring his good arm. He shivered. A night on the floorboards in a thin t-shirt had seeped the cold right into his bones.
"Sarah," he started, his voice raspy. "Good morning."
She stepped aside, leaving just enough
