The floor between them was mined with Subway wrappers, Burger King sacks and Pizza Hut boxes, the coffee table an avalanche of grease-stained magazines and unopened mail. Why was her bedroom door wide open, or as wide as it could get without plowing into jeans, bras and towels? Her bed looked ransacked. Had she dozed off? She recalled snatches of conversation, but who with? There were four of them now, sharing a joint and talking high on the inhale like kids sucking helium. The couch boys looked like they’d survived a dust storm together. Looking closer, she recognized one—Maniac—she couldn’t stand. The clean, older guy on the footstool was familiar, too: Duval. When he pitched forward to load a bong, a pistol grip rose from his coat pocket like an Afro comb. What time was it, anyway? When she’d moved in almost two months ago, she never saw the diggers. That was how it was supposed to be. They entered from the rear, had their own toilet and weren’t even supposed to come in for water.
