Michael Reed awoke at one o'clock in the morning, gently opening his eyes.
He was positioned oddly on the ripped leather couch; one foot was hanging off and almost touched the floor, the other laying over the armrest,
and his torso was tightly sandwiched between both of his arms. With a tired yawn he stretched out his joints and looked around him.
Coloured pencils and gaudy crayons strewn about the floor; lime green wallpaper and a shoddy wooden ceiling; suitcases and guitars lining the walls; quesadilla remains littering the surface
of the coffee table; the lonely workdesk wedged into a corner of the room, Yes, this had to be The Jon's house- nothing else could be so
and yet feel so much like home to him.
Tonight it was cold, very cold, but the front door of the house was wide open.
Michael Reed, therefore, flung himself off the couch and threw on a hoodie before going to close the door with a less-than-satisfied expression.
Something, however, stopped him in his tracks when he looked out the door.
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