Talk to nice sleep.

When the doorbell rings on Friday afternoon, Wyn doesn't answer right away.

He sits stiffly on his couch, sweat beating on his cheeks, wondering why, why he had ever

listed his apartment's second bedroom as a short-term rental. There had to be a less painful

way to come up with additional income, selling his organs

on the black market, for instance.

He's lived alone since college, over 20 years, and the thought of having a roommate causes

his guts to clench with an audible squelch and grumble.

The bell rings again, screeching in his ears.

Wind gets to his feet, straightens his glasses, and wipes his palms against his jeans.

Forcing an awkward smile onto his face, he crosses the living room to the front door and pulls it open.

A gust of wind shoves the door inward, startling wind and nearly causing him to trip over his feet.

He studies himself and opens his mouth to speak, but the young woman on the landing doesn't wait for an invitation.

Sweeping past him, she strides confidently into the living room.

Oh, uh, okay, wind mutters, closing the door and cringing to see that some wind-swept leaves and dirt have just found their way inside with her.

The woman meanders in the center of the room, her hands clasped behind her back, craning

her head to look around.

Hey-yo, nice place, just like the pictures, and so very clean.

Wynne adjusts his glasses.

Yes, well.

As she turns in place, her head bobbing and her big eyes starting to survey every detail.

She reminds him of some sort of punk rock ballerina. All her clothes are

...