A sharp sound woke me before dawn. I opened my eyes and lay still. Faint blue light rimmed the curtain’s edge. I heard the sound a second time. A human voice. A cry or a gasp. A voice without words. I waited and listened. A minute or two later there was a dull bang and a raucous clatter. Like something breaking, or many things falling all over a polished wood floor.

I swiveled out of bed. Dressed. Slipped out of the room. I crept along the corridor on bare feet. It was quiet in the house. Someone had made a noise and was now keeping still. Maybe waiting to see if anyone had been roused. The floorboards were creaky. Old house.

I kept to the edges near the wall. The joists would be stronger and more firmly attached. Joists are usually spaced forty or sixty centimeters apart. I wasn’t worried about someone hearing me. I just wanted to hear them first. So I placed my feet carefully, sliding them forward until I found solid footing. I made it to the stairwell without a sound. Thick green carpeting allowed me to bound soundlessly in three or four leaps. Landed like a cat.

I stood there a couple of beats, listening. I could hear breathing coming from the dining room. I walked over and turned the corner.

Gilles Vaugeois was sprawled across a drawer full of spilled silverware.

The old guy was dressed in classic blue stripe pajamas. He must have noticed me because he started moaning and gasping. He was bald with a thin puff of white hair awry above his pink liver-spotted head. The screwdriver scar looked angry and swollen. He had a long nose, dripping with moisture. His neck was scrawny and barely held up the head, bent into his chest. I went to him. Supported him under the arms from behind.

“Let’s get you back to your room.”

He moaned and gasped. Not like he was trying to say words, more like an animal discomfort. A line of spit traced from the corner of his mouth to the front of his pajamas. He was light and I lifted him without trouble. His bare feet scrambled for purchase and eventually settled. I took the weight. Slung his arm over my shoulder and held his wrist. I had him around the waist with the other arm. He was skin and bones, it was like carrying a classroom skeleton in a cloth bag.

I guided him out of the dining room and into the corridor. His head brushed against the side of my face. Halfway down the corridor he started to fret. He tried to pull away, but I held him firmly. I said, “We’re just gonna get you back to bed, buddy.”