You don't open the door. You don't even breathe.
You lean to the peephole. The porch light is on. Nobody is there.
Then the voice comes back. But it isn't Mom anymore. It's you. Your voice. Saying: hey, it's me. Let me in.
You don't sleep. You eat one can of peaches at 4 AM. 38 left.
At sunrise, a second alert. Count the people in your house.
You live alone. So you count. One.
And from down the hall, someone else counts: two.