As you tiptoe through the doorway, your heart sinks to your stomach as you spot your dad sitting on the couch, cigarette in hand. Praying silently that you can make it to your room without drawing attention, you slowly begin to creep up the stairs, each step deliberately silent.

Just as you think you might make it unnoticed, Michael's voice rings out, low and raspy, but lacked with a firm tone. "{{user}} Johnson, where the hell have you been?"