I realize I never asked him for identification. That’s what I’m supposed to do if an uninvited guest shows up. I kneel on the floor of my bedroom, examining one of the newly installed outlets. It looks the same as before. There’s no obvious difference. Did he even replace anything?

If he didn’t replace the outlet, why was he in my apartment? What was he doing in my room?

I’m down on the floor with a roll of Scotch tape; the only sticky thing I could find. I can feel my forehead perspiring. I put a piece of tape over the new outlet. And then another. I put enough tape to completely cover it. The outlets are all taped now, all of them that are not in use.

I get up and walk into the kitchen. I’m not hungry, but I don’t think I’ve eaten yet today. I find my last can of red soup, which I manage to open without trouble and pour into a pot on the stove. I fill the empty can with water and stir it into the mixture. As I wait for the soup to heat, the single kitchen light bulb starts to flicker and then burns out.

I hadn’t noticed it’s grown dark outside. I look up at the bulb. I push a chair underneath the light. I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t. I should wait and get Mike to do it.

I climb up onto the chair, slowly, and with great effort bring a foot up onto the back of the chair. I’m reaching my hand toward the light, my arm in front of my face. It doesn’t look like my own arm, but someone else’s. I’m so close. As I’m about to touch it. I lose my balance and fall onto the floor, hitting my forehead on the counter.

The wind is knocked out of me. I can’t get a breath.

I try to roll over. A sharp pain in my forehead. I lie on the floor. I hear the soup bubbling over on the stove, hissing.

It takes a minute to realize I’m still on the kitchen floor. I don’t know how long I’ve been down here. My side is sore from the hard ground. I must have been unconscious. For how long? I can move my arms and legs, but I can’t seem to get up.

I bring my hand to my head. My forehead is cut and bleeding from a single gash. I close my eyes, resting my head on my hands, giving in to the pain.

When I wake again, I don’t know how long I’ve been out. Hours?

My head throbs. I bring my hand to my head and feel that the blood has dried. The kitchen is dark. It must be the middle of the night. I can smell burnt soup. I didn’t turn off the stove. I look around. I’m still alone, but then I see… movement.

My bedroom is across from the kitchen, and the door is closed. I think I see a subtle shift through the crack at the bottom of my door, from inside my room. I wait. I definitely see a change in the light, as if someone is walking inside my room.