The building was quiet at two a.m., the hall lights almost too bright as I padded the length of the third floor to the central stairs; one flight down and then about halfway across the other wing of the building brought me to their door. Maybe this time I wouldn’t get punched.
Because I had to knock on that door. I needed to see for myself that the men who lived on the other side were alive and well, and then I might be able to sleep again. If not tonight, then some other night, but the need to see them both, to touch them and feel the warmth of life, pulled my hand up to the wood, and I knocked. Three soft raps on the door, and only then did I realize I had no idea what to say, how to explain being on their doorstep in the wee hours.
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