There’s water rushing. A river or a creek. I feel the water in the air, but I can’t see it, even when I strain my eyes to look into the dark behind the house. I can go in and use the bathroom and then tell him I want to sleep in my car. I don’t have to stay. He won’t make me stay, I’m pretty sure.

He lives on the top floor. The stairs squeak when we climb them. There are other doors. Other people. Someone baked cookies. Someone’s listening to reggae.

The lock makes a loud click when he turns the key. He flicks a switch and the apartment is flooded with light. The walls are bright white and the ceiling is high, slanted at weird angles. He has the kind of old metal radiators that make the heat smell like melting crayons. There’s a big desk with a tilted top. A black footlocker for the coffee table. Bookshelves built into the walls filled with books and CDs. The futon is clean and white. The hardwood floor has a rug in the middle that’s woven in bright colors. No one in Little River lives in a place like this. It’s not cluttered with things that were useful once and might be useful again. Nothing is old or worn out that doesn’t look that way on purpose.

Adam kicks off his boots at the mat and I do the same, feeling strange about losing that level of protection. Now I will have to stop for my boots when I leave. Bend over to put them back on or grab them as I flee and try not to slip running downstairs in my socks.

“Can I use the—”

“Oh, yeah.” Adam points to the hallway. “The bathroom is right there.”

The bathroom door is open. To the left there’s a kitchen, enough street light coming through the window that I can see the stove and a small table. But on the other side of the bathroom, there’s a door and it’s closed. I can’t tell if it’s the bedroom or a closet and I start to worry that the futon is where Adam sleeps. I close myself in the bathroom, turn the lock until it latches, and try to run through everything Adam said to me about staying at his place. I thought he talked about making up the futon like it was something extra he would do. But I’ve never been in an apartment like this before. Maybe I don’t understand how he lives. Maybe he doesn’t bother folding it down for just one person.