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The first thing you notice is that your bed is empty. The second thing is that it’s raining, drops tapping on the roof in an endless staccato. Rainy nights always bring the same thing, and you crawl out of bed to meet it.
Sure enough, Murphy is awake. The soft blue light of the television illuminates his face. His deep-set eyes see nothing, even though they’re pointed at a cheery infomercial. Two well-dressed people are trying to sell him an automatic litter box.
“Bad dreams?”
Murphy startles, grabbing for the tire iron he keeps by his chair. You put your hands up in surrender and he registers you. Murphy drops the tire iron with a metallic thunk. He sinks back into the chair, looking even more exhausted than he was before. “It’s been a rough night,” he tells you.
“Which one was it this time?”
“Frank,” he replies. You nod. He never told you much about Frank. Either it was so forgettable that he forgot tell you, or so horrible that he could not try. Murphy has told you about that town, about how he escaped hell, and about how the town keeps clawing it’s way back into his mind. Rainy nights are the worst for him.
You step over to his chair and lean over it, holding Murphy close to your chest. “I’m here,” you murmur into his hair.
“I know.” Murphy holds your arm against him, pinning himself into the chair. He lays his lips against your arm. “Thank you.”