I was standing in my living room at midnight on a Wednesday holding a halfeaten sandwich when someone started pounding on my door like the building was on fire. Not knocking, pounding. For a second, I just froze. Nobody visits me that late. I live alone in a small apartment in Seattle where the walls are so thin you can hear your neighbors sneeze. My life is quiet now. Simple.
Work, gym, microwave dinners, sleep. I like it that way. After my divorce 2 years ago, quiet felt safe. The pounding came again, harder this time. I walked to the door, my heart beating faster than it should have. I checked the clock. 12:07 a.m. Whoever it was, it couldn’t be good. When I opened the door, I forgot how to breathe.
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