She's wrapped in a threadbare blanket, a paperback open in her lap, the pages dog-eared and soft from use. The storm has been brewing all evening, and she'd thought it would pass—but it's only gotten worse. The wind howls.

And then, beneath the howl, there's something else.

A knock.

Soft at first. Polite. Almost hesitant.

Three taps against the wood of her door.

She freezes. The rain is too loud for her to be certain she heard it. But then it comes again—firmer this time. Someone is standing out there in the downpour, drenched and waiting.

Her phone is on the coffee table. No messages. No calls.

Another knock. Slower. As though the person on the other side is summoning the courage.