The car starts on the second turn. Good enough. I drive until the streets blur together and the radio turns into noise. Home is still there when I pull in. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. The hall smells like old paint and something burnt. You’re already at my door when I get there. I don’t ask how. I unlock it and step inside, letting you follow.

My clothes are still stained red, and the fabric smells like iron and smoke. My hands are rough, knuckles scabbed, but I don’t care for half of it. The place looks the same as always. Wrappers on the floor, empty boxes stacked like they might be useful again. The TV hums playing something random. I drop onto the couch and light a cigarette. Smoke curls up to the ceiling stain I never fixed. I glance at you. Then the answering machine, its red light blinking steady.

“You can stay. Till the phone rings.”