Dillon’s new home was in a block of old duplexes on the top of a hill. The closer Whitney came to the screened-in wrap-around porch, the more the building took on the foreboding power of a villain's lair. Opening the screen door, Whitney found a dozen scattered bikes creating a maze to the front door. 
    Whitney rang the doorbell and listened for any movement inside the house. Something rustled, but no one came to the door. 
She counted to thirty in her head. As a child, she once knocked on a friend’s door twice in ten seconds and received a thorough talking-to from her father. He insisted she wait at least thirty seconds between knocks. Though she doesn’t remember why, Whitney now always starts counting to thirty as soon as she rings a doorbell. 
    After thirty seconds, Whitney gave the door a sturdy knock and someone came to the door. They were six feet tall with long hair, a billowing t-shirt, and volleyball shorts. 
    Whitney asked if Dillon was in. 
    “Can’t you text them?”
    “They aren’t responding.” 
    “Maybe that’s them trying to tell you something.” 
    “They have my truck and I need it back. Please, I need it for work.”
    “Oh, okay. Well…they’re not here.” 
    “Do you know where…?” Whitney let the half-question hang in the air. She wasn’t sure if she was asking about the truck or about Dillon, but she would be happy to get any information she could. 
    “I have no idea. I can see if they told anybody before they left if you want?”
    “That would be great, thank you!”
    Dillon’s roommate shut the door behind them, leaving Whitney alone again with bikes. She noticed that Dillon’s bike had joined the collection. 
    A minute passed. Then another. Whitney didn’t hear rustling anymore. 


Should Whitney: