Three knocks, that’s all it took. Three knocks, a bruised lip and a girl wrapped in a christmas sweater that she was wearing way too early but it covered her aching and frozen form. “Quinn? You in there?”
He’s watching television with the dullest excitement he can manage, and nearly jolts when someone begins knocking on his door. His aunt’s asleep in the loft, and he’s got the volume down low – there’s no reason for anyone to be knocking at this hour. He answers anyway, finding himself a lot less surprised at the sight than he would have anticipated.
TV stitches threads hazy patterns into his vision, and he blinks at Charlie blankly. “Guess you’re not here to sell me girl scout cookies, huh?”
