The doorbell rang at seven in the morning on a Tuesday, and I was deeply, blissfully asleep in a cocoon of blankets and unicorn pajamas and the lingering warmth of dreams I couldn't quite remember.
It rang again. And again. Three times, long and insistent, the kind of ring that said "I know you're in there and I'm not leaving until you answer." I buried my face in my pillow and hoped that whoever it was would give up and go away, that it was a mistake or a wrong address or a delivery person who would leave the package at the door.
The doorbell rang again. Four times. Five. Now accompanied by knocking, sharp and rhythmic, like someone was tapping out a message in Morse code that I didn't know how to read.
