Doug made sense but Phil was still confused. It took him a while to open the lock—his fingers were trembling and he couldn’t get the key to fit.

The lights were off inside, which made him even edgier, claustrophobic, as if he were trapped in a coal mine. He felt for the switch as his heart swelled to fill his chest. The feel of the stubby plastic relieved him. Smiling to himself, he flicked it. But nothing happened and he panicked. Shit. He flicked it again. Nothing. And again. Blackness. More fear. And silence. At the base of his skull, a hammer began to bang a tattoo that almost drowned the sound of his heavy breathing. He reached out again. And then he felt it—this cold sensation that he was not alone. He listened keenly. But he didn’t hear anything. Fuck, he thought he saw something move. “Who’s there?” he called out timidly. Sweat soaked his shirt. He didn’t see any movement or hear any sound, which rather than reassuring him led him to question his senses, and this made him feel even more vulnerable. As his vision adjusted to the dimness and he still wasn’t able to see anything unusual, he began to relax and suddenly, out of nowhere, the reason for the darkness hit him. He’d forgotten to pay the electric bill.

Laughing at himself a bit, though still uneasy, he felt his way to the kitchen and got a candle. As he walked under the basketball net, he mapped out the most efficient route for gathering his things and devised an emergency plan—grab spare horn and scores first, everything else after. Then he saw what looked like a figure in the bed. He stopped. Then crept closer. Then stopped again when his breath blew out the light. Crouching slowly, he placed the candleholder on the floor. Could it be Ian? He didn’t want to go any closer if it was. Maybe he’s asleep. But don’t be daft, Phil, he’s in Jamaica. Now you’re overreacting. Just get your things. He felt his way to the dresser, felt for his scores, then stooped to pick up the trumpet. He felt the handle of the case and grabbed it. But it was empty. The trumpet must be in the room. All he would need to find it was light. As he scoured his memory he focused in on the form in the bed. If it was Ian he would have answered, he thought. It may be just a bundle of pillows and sheets, for heaven’s sake. Why am I getting so hyper? “Ian?” He jumped at the sound of his own voice. But he calmed down when there was no reply. Feeling bolder now, he called out again, a little louder. “Ian? … It’s me, Phil … Are you sleeping? Ian … Ian … Oh fuck, there’s no one there!”

Convinced he was alone, Phil went to the kitchen for another match. He came back and lit the candle, but he wasn’t completely settled. He saw his trumpet and he quickly put it away, but he was curious about the bundle in the bed. He went there and pulled back the sheets and stood there … and stood there … and stood there …