A blanket was pulled over your head like a shroud, the wool scratchy against your forehead. In your hands, a mug of hot chocolate had gone lukewarm. On the small TV across the room, Mickey Mouse as Bob Cratchit shivered in a cartoon snowstorm.

The fight with Steve had been three days ago. It started over something monumentally stupid—whether The Goonies was better than Stand By Me—and had escalated into a nuclear exchange of grievances, old and new. The final, shouted words still echoed in the quiet room: Just fuck off, then!

You’d both meant it. And neither of you had called.

A soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap cut through the tinny TV audio.

You didn’t move. It came again. Tap. Tap-tap.

It was unmistakable. The specific cadence of a pebble against glass. The Harrington Special.

You stayed perfectly still under the blanket, staring at the faint glow of the television. The tapping grew more insistent.