"Oh! Rose!"

"Hey, Jer. Nikki told me what—oh my god they trashed the place!"

Jared looked where she was looking, at the clothes spread across the floor, the cabinet ajar, the socks hanging out of the open dresser drawers, the books spilling off the bookshelf. He turned back to Rose. "Whaddaya mean?"

"What do I mean? Look!"

"Look at what?"

As the reason for his confusion dawned on her, she winced. "Yo never mind. Nikki told me you had a break-in. You okay? Aw shit, they hit you?"

He raised a hand to his cheek. "No I'm—I'm fine. The guy ran off when I woke up."

"Well. Thank god you wake up for burglars, huh?"

Jared let out a short laugh. "No kidding."

"So you good? Nothing stolen, just some whack job, in and out?"

"Yeah, I guess." He dropped his gaze, and it fell on the doorknob. "Actually about the, um..." He flushed to his ears. "It...it's gonna take another couple months."

Rose gave him a look of mild exasperation. "Right now that's what you worried about? Son you taking that too seriously. I don't care if it takes you a bit longer to pay me back. Buy food and shit. Get yourself some decent clothes."

"Can we talk about something else!?"

"Aight chill. We still on for the beach Saturday?"

"Uh..."

"Oh no. Donchu back out on me now. You need some R&R. Besides, you gotta be there." She brimmed with glee. "I got an announcement."

His own woes were instantly forgotten. "No! Don't tell me—"

"Now no guessing!"

"You're finally—"

"Bitch you stop guessing!"

He grinned. "I guess we're celebrating. The usual? Barbecue and a marshmallow roast?"

"Don't forget the beer. Mike's treat."

"If you bring the hot dogs, I'll bring the puns."

"Bitch I'll un-invite you. But naw man, it's cool, Alma's bringing the buns. Anyway we all know Lou pays you shit."

Jared winced. Suddenly remembering Lou's questioning in his office last week, he asked: "Is, uh, is Lou coming?"

Rose scowled. "He better not. And donchu make that smug-ass face!"

"You're better off without him."

"I know that. I don't need you to tell me."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, I gotta get to choir practice. Meet me at the station at three for Saturday."

"Yeah."

"Bye!"

Rose whirled off, and she took the warmth from the apartment with her, leaving him staring at the empty hall. He'd been so busy, spun from one thing to the next, he'd had no time to come up with a plan. He'd nodded on the subway, unable either to think or to rest. Now all he wanted to do was sleep, and sleep was the one thing he couldn't do. The sun was going down.

Jared looked around at his apartment, the glorified shoebox that was costing most of his income. The bleak sunlight slanted across the worn floorboards to be choked in the dust in the corners, while the ragged punctures in the ceiling dragged his attention upward. Behind him, the door hung slack in its frame.

Was there anywhere else he could go for the night? Judy's?

No. It's short notice, I don't wanna bother her.

Even if he did crash at Judy's, it was hardly a long-term solution.

The hell can I do? Move? Work a night shift?

He gazed unseeing out the darkening window.

Kill the bastard. A.S.A.P.

The vampire was sure to be back. So he'd be up, ready for him.

Going to the stove, he put on the battered teapot. While the water warmed, he worried. He'd never stayed up a full night before. What would happen? Would he become totally unable to function? Would he have to sleep for a day to catch up? Would it take months off his life? How long could humans live without sleep?

Alright shut up.

The kettle whistled. The kitchen recess was set off from the rest of the apartment by a wall, with the sink, a sliver of counter, and a fold-up table on one side, the stove and the fridge on the other side, and barely enough space between them to open the oven door. Jared grabbed the teapot off the stove and hurriedly returned to the open.

Relatively speaking. The rickety cabinet, under which huddled the hammer alarm, was too large to sit flush with the wall, so Jared, scoring no points in either interior decorating or feng shui, had set it sideways facing the door. This afforded the dual benefits of leaving enough space that you didn't have to squeeze sideways between it and the desk, and of providing a sort of changing room, in the form of cover from the curtainless windows, for getting dressed. But it dominated the room, blocking his line of sight, and Jared had to pull the desk chair to the center to command a view of the possible avenues of ingress. The kitchen window he couldn't see, but that, he knew from his wrestles with it post cooking liver, was impossible to open quietly.

As darkness began settling into the corners of the room, creeping across the walls and seeping out from under the furniture, he beat it back with every light he had. He fixed dinner, though he wasn't hungry, and ate it standing, starts of anxiety bringing his eyes back to the door.

Going to a cabinet, he got down a pan. He set it in front of the entrance, then wedged the table up alongside it and confirmed that opening the door would produce a ringing clang. Letting out a breath, he glanced at the alarm on the desk.

Less than an hour had passed.

Shit.

A few steps away, the bed called to him. He slouched into the desk chair and regarded it glumly. A hot heaviness was encasing his brain, which was already running on fumes from yesterday. Behind his eyes, there was a rawness, as if the sockets were drying out. Was that normal?

Shut up.

He needed to sleep. If he didn't sleep, his reflexes would be slow; he'd be too tired to fight. He needed to sleep, but if he slept too deeply, if something came creeping in in the night—what if he never woke?

Shut up!

He stood, or paced, or sat, eyes darting between the windows and the unbolted door. The screws on the bolt hadn't realigned when he'd forced the door closed, and one had been pushed from its metal frame, dangling by a thread.

The twin windows punctuating the opposite wall were like wide-open eyes onto the night, exposing his every movement. He considered contriving a way to hang the bedsheets over them, but having them covered, being unable to see what went on beyond them, sounded worse.

He ate mindlessly, nibbling on rolls, starting at shadows in the corner of his eye. He made lunch and packed it, he made breakfast and let it sit, he did jumping jacks until the cut in his side bade him stop. He fanned himself, he went to the bathroom, the Seal at the ready on the rim of the tub, he thought to take a shower and thought better of it, he made more tea, he forgot he'd done it already and started to make lunch again. He reached for his violin but stopped, remembering the hour.

Pacing again, he picked up a book instead—anything to break this monotonous tension—but while he stared at the page every step he took caused the old building to groan and whisper, snapping up his attention with a clench of panic. He sat down to read, the weight of the book dragging at his too-heavy arms, and found at each sentence his eyes sliding off the page, or sliding closed. The Big Sleep. Perhaps not the best choice of reading material. He went to pick up another. The Return of the Shadow. Maybe not.

Shoving aside the books, he groped for something to occupy himself. How long had he been up for? He scribbled out the calculations on a piece of paper, subtracting what he'd gotten in sleep before the break-in. 38 hours awake of the past 40. That sounded bad. Did that sound bad? It sounded pretty bad. Was that number right? He added again. 39. 39? He added again. 38. 38 hours. Was that a sound in the hallway? A footstep? Was it? Yes—! Someone creaking up...and past, on their way to their own apartment. He strained his ears, tracing every sound from down the hall until his racing heart desisted shooting him full of adrenaline, then resumed pacing.

Hour after hour after hour. Wearing his way between the door and the windows, between the bed and the behemoth cabinet, between the socks and the books on the floor. He would have abided coffee, if he had any. He would have done laundry, even, for something to do. He could do dishes. He went to the bathroom to wash out his mug, fumbling for the dish soap. Where was the sponge? He stopped, staring at his haggard face in the mirror. Of course! What was he thinking? The vampire could see everything from the street! He'd be able to see him, pacing about in agitation, would know it was a trap!

He abandoned the cup in the sink and went to check the door again. Then he scooted the desk chair, its legs squealing protests against the floor, nearer the windows, so the light from the room would present the silhouette of his nodding head to the street below, and sat down to wait. Caffeine pulsed through him as he slouched in the chair, chin drooping to his chest. His eyes flicked from the door to the windows to the door to the windows, his heart pounding unhealthily in his ears. The approach to the door was lined with creaky floorboards, but not a sound came from the hallway. From the street came the usual noises—the buzz of air conditioners, the throb of traffic, the screech of a jet on a red-eye flight. From nearby rooms, the murmurs of conversation or television had gone quiet. A light rain started, gurgling down gutter pipes into the sewers below. The trickling of the water past the window was putting a strain on his own pipes.

Sweat was dribbling down his cheek and gathering at his chin, itching there, unscratchable.

The vampire's attack could be any minute now.

The current minute was slinking by on the alarm on the sill. He began counting.

It had been about ten minutes.

Now eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen. Fourteen.

The spaces between minutes were getting shorter.

Fifteen. Seventeen. Twenty—wait. He jolted to his feet before his bluff became a reality, and resolved to stay on them until dawn. You couldn't fall asleep standing.

Right...?

For hour after hour, he kept his vigil, nursing his tea, rechecking the door, wheeling at a perceived footstep, and at each echo of his own. All the hours of darkness he remained awake, but the vampire didn't come. Perhaps he was out there, somewhere on the street below, watching Jared's lit windows, waiting.

At long last, the darkness diluted. Birdsong drifted from a nearby park and scattered trees. Jared held on, counting the seconds stretching by, until he was sure the sun had cleared the horizon, then he dropped into bed to grab a few hours, before work and the next sundown.

✶✝ If I do die before I finish this story, don't worry. ...I'll be a ghostwriter. ✶✝