Michael leaned his head back against the wall. His hands were sweaty beneath the cotton gloves and his eyes throbbed after hours of staring out into the parking lot from the edge of the window. His methods of self-entertainment had about worn thin. So far he’d recited the alphabet backward, solved dozens of math problems in his head, and named all the states and their capitals. At the moment he was singing the theme song to The Flintstones. Boredom had driven him over the edge.
Headlights cut through the parking lot. A truck came into view, slowed, then pulled into an empty space. Michael gave up on the song and carefully studied the figure stepping out of the pickup. Definitely Pete. And fortunately he was alone.
The guy was thin. Probably about Michael’s height, maybe 6’2” or so. Hair in a ponytail. Michael stepped away from the window as Pete approached the entrance.
The lock twisted and the door swung open. Pete stepped inside. He flicked the light switch on. Nothing happened. He cursed it, pushed the door shut.
Pete stumbled across the ratty carpet. Michael watched from the corner by the door. As Pete crossed the living room, Michael stepped behind him and said, “Don’t move.”
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