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She groaned in embarrassment, thankful that
no one was around to see her pathetic attempt to pull the plug.
Alma lay back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling as she
recalled the details of yet another of her recurring dreams about
her teeth falling out.

Alma stared at the ceiling, which was now
illuminated by the red light of the clock on the floor. She was
waiting for the color to flash, a sign that the time had changed.
It would feel like a minor victory to wait for the minute to pass
before putting the clock back on the nightstand. It was a ludicrous
thought, and one she wouldn’t like to admit to anyone, but it felt
sane to her. Perhaps it was a symptom of OCD, but her mother’s
obsession with the date of Alma’s brother’s disappearance had
turned into a curse.

The red light flickered on the ceiling.

Alma excitedly rolled to the side of the bed
and stared down to see if the minute had passed yet. She felt like
a child at Christmas, peeking down the stairs at her pile of
presents.

3:14

“Mother fucker!” She threw the covers off
and got out of bed. This time she would make sure the damn thing
came out of the wall.

The number had defeated her, and she was
furious. She would later say that her manic behavior was because of
her lack of sleep and bad dreams, but in truth her battle with the
ever-present number was all-encompassing at times. Alma gripped the
clock in one hand while grabbing the cord with the other. She
pulled it hard enough that the nightstand fell over as the cord
whipped away from the wall. The kitchen knife that she’d placed
beside the clock bounced on the carpet.

The clock’s number faded away, but that
didn’t sate her. Alma threw the clock against the wall and it
exploded into bits of plastic and pieces of electronics. She yelped
as the shards flew back at her.

She started to chuckle at her own insanity
as she stared at the remnants of her alarm clock on the white
carpet. Her awakening from the dream had left her in a fragile
state, and her thoughts didn’t make sense to her anymore. As
bizarre as it sounded, she’d been afraid that the number 314 would
be angry when she broke the clock. She was worried it would try to
hurt her.

How ridiculous.

Someone pounded on the front door.

The sound terrified Alma. She cried out in
surprise and then clapped her hands over her mouth. The door to her
bedroom was open and the hallway led straight out to the front
door.

The person outside pounded harder.

Alma looked for her phone, but it was in her
purse on the counter beside the front door. She never bothered to
get a landline, and instead used her cell phone for everything. Now
she regretted that decision as she stared at her purse on the
counter, just feet from the front door.

“Alma, open the door,” said a stranger. “Or
I’ll break it down.”

She needed her phone, or better yet a
weapon. A kitchen knife would do. She looked around for the knife
that she’d left on the nightstand, but it had bounced away
somewhere in the room and she couldn’t find it.

“All right, I’m going to break it down,”
said the stranger.

“Stay out! Get away from here!” Alma knew
she had to act. She ran down the hall and into the kitchen just as
the stranger kicked the door. It rattled on its hinges and Alma
screamed in shock. She tried to grab her purse, but then decided it
was too late to try and call the police. The purse spun on the
counter as she abandoned it in search of a knife. Her phone,
wallet, keys, and Rachel’s business card spread out over the
counter as the front door rattled again.

“Alma,” said the stranger. “Stay back. I’m
coming in!”

“Who the fuck?” Her hands were shaking as
she pulled a knife from the butcher’s block. “Who are you? Stop it!
What are you doing?”

The trim around the deadbolt splintered and
the door flung open. Alma was on the other side of the breakfast
counter with the knife held out in front of her as a tall, thick
man clad in a winter coat and stocking cap came bounding
haphazardly in. He stumbled forward and lost his balance before
cursing as he fell to his knees.

Alma wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to
get the upper hand. She ran around the counter as the man crouched
with his hand on one of the bar stools. He started to ask, “Are you
okay?”

Alma was quick to fight, and heard his
question after already starting to kick. Her strike faltered when
she realized he wasn’t threatening her, but her foot still collided
with his face. The chubby intruder fell backward onto his butt and
clasped his nose with one hand and held out the other to tell her
to stop.

“Hey! Hold up, Alma. I’m a friend of
Paul’s.”

“What?” Alma held the knife with both hands,
unwilling to believe the stranger and ready to kill him if he dared
try anything.

“I’m a friend of Paul’s. I’m Jack, well
actually Hank, but everyone calls me Jack, it’s short for Jacker.
Which is a nickname I got in high school because I liked computers,
which is probably more than you needed to know. Point is, I’m a
friend. Jesus H. Christ, girl, you nearly took my head off.” He
spoke frantically, as if frightened or nervous.

“What are you doing here?” Alma was suddenly
embarrassed, not by the fact that she’d attacked an innocent
stranger, but because she was only wearing a long t-shirt and
panties. She pulled the t-shirt down further to cover herself as
she backed around the breakfast counter from the stranger.

“Paul needed some sleep.” Jacker inspected
his hand after holding his nose, seeming to expect blood. He
sniffled and then rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. He was
a rotund guy, tall and boyish looking. His whiskers were scant, but
he seemed to be trying to grow a beard anyhow. He wore small, round
glasses that would’ve been more suited for a German scientist than
a man like him. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to the door
and his cheeks were turning red, which gave him a cherub
appearance.

“Sleep?” asked Alma. She shook her head in
confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Jacker pointed in the direction of the
parking lot. “He’s down in my van, getting some shut eye and I came
up here to keep an eye on you. Well, I mean, not actually keep an
eye on you; not spying or anything. I’m not a peeping tom, or my
nickname would’ve been Tommy.” He chuckled, but Alma didn’t
reciprocate and he continued to try and explain. “All right, I’m
striking out here. You’re obviously okay, and I obviously, well,
over-reacted a little.” He motioned at the broken door. His
mannerisms were frantic, as if he’d taken caffeine pills to stay
awake.

Alma nodded and stared at him with wide
eyes. “Yeah, ya think?”

“Sorry about that.”

“Why are you here? Why is Paul sleeping in a
van in the parking lot?”

Jacker was baffled and he scratched at his
sparse, scraggly whiskers. “He said we had to keep guard; didn’t
say why. He just said to keep an eye out for creepy old guys around
the complex, and to listen for you to scream for help or something.
So that’s why, well, yeah,” he motioned at the door. “That’s why
that just happened.” He rubbed his nose again.

Alma finally relaxed and put the kitchen
knife back into the butcher’s block. “For crying out loud, you
scared the living shit out of me.”

“Well, you paid me back with a swift kick to
the nose.” Jacker wiggled his nose back and forth and then
snickered.

“Sorry, but you kind of deserved it,” said
Alma, but her harshness softened. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” said Jack. “Although, swear
to God, I think you got your pinkie toe like straight up in there.”
They both laughed and Jacker continued, “Seriously, I think you
scratched my brain. When I pay for your door I’ll make sure to
throw in a couple extra bucks for you to get a pedicure.”

Alma laughed put then pointed at him as if
in warning. “Watch it, mister. I don’t know you well enough to put
up with jokes about my feet.”

Jacker put up his hands in defeat and then
walked to door to inspect it.

“Everything okay down there?” asked the
widow that lived upstairs as she peered down from the stairwell.
Alma walked around the breakfast counter and past Jacker so that
she could see Mrs. Peterson. The old woman was in her slippers and
a pink robe. She was crouched near the top of the stairs and was
bent down just far enough to peer into Alma’s apartment. “Should I
call the cops?”

“No, Mrs. P., everything’s okay. I’m fine.
Just a silly misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker warily. She
was a fragile, spindly old woman, but was fiercely protective of
Alma. The two of them often had long conversations in the
stairwell, and Mrs. Peterson was always concerned about Alma’s
love-life. It was as if the old woman was trying to keep Alma from
ending up alone in an apartment, just like she was.

“You’ve got men beating down your door in
the middle of the night?”

“He’s a friend of Paul’s,” said Alma.

“Oh, Paul,” said Mrs. Peterson with a
hopeful inflection. “Are you two back together? I always liked
Paul. He’d be handsome if he cut his hair.”

“He did,” said Jacker as he ran his hand
over his own head and pulled back his black, curly hair. “He shaved
it bald.”

Mrs. Peterson looked at Jacker and grimaced,
unwilling to communicate with the stranger that had just broken
down Alma’s door. “Alma, you just yell if you need me. Okay? I’ll
have my phone ready.”

“Okay, will do,” said Alma as she waved.
“Thanks, Mrs. P.”

“I’ve got your back, sweetie,” said the old
woman as she went back up the stairs.

Alma tried to close the door, but it drifted
open now that the trim was broken. “That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jacker as he sheepishly
shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” said Alma. She’d already
started to like the giant oaf. He was affable, like an awkward
little brother, and she felt sorry for him despite having no reason
to. “Come on in and have a seat. Want a beer?”

“You just said the magic word.”

“What’s that? Beer?”

Jack snapped his finger and pointed at her
as he nodded. “Bingo. You don’t turn into a ton of fun like me by
turning down free beer.”

“Considering how much it’s going to cost you
to fix my door, I’d hardly call the beer free.” Alma went to the
refrigerator to get him a Milk Stout.

Jacker sighed as he looked at the damage
he’d caused. “Gosh, I’m real sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Alma. “I’m just
joking with you. I’ll make Paul pay for it.”

“Shoot, he doesn’t have any money. Not after
getting canned.” Jacker plopped onto the center of the sofa with
his long arms stretched to either side along the backboard. He
looked comfortable, as if the seat was a familiar spot for him
despite never having sat there before.

“Paul got fired?”

Jacker’s posture stiffened and he grimaced.
“I guess I should learn when to keep my mouth shut. I thought you
knew that.”

“No, I didn’t. What happened?”

“It’s a long story, and one I’ve got no
business telling.”

Alma got a glass out of the cupboard to pour
Jack’s beer into.

“I don’t need a glass,” said Jack.

Alma sneered. “Yes you do. This is a good
beer, and it tastes better in a glass. How long have you and Paul
been friends?” She asked because of Jacker’s unfamiliarity with
Paul’s preferred way of drinking beer.

“About six months. I met him at the shop
under his place.”

Alma handed the beer to Jacker and suddenly
remembered that she was only wearing a t-shirt and panties. “Hold
that thought,” said Alma. “I’m going to go get some pants on. I
want to hear why Paul got fired.”

Jacker spoke loud enough for her to hear as
she retreated down the hall to her bedroom. “I’m not going to tell
you. I don’t care how much delicious beer you give me.”

“Yes you will,” said Alma as she got to her
bedroom. “I can be pretty persuasive.” She started to walk over to
her dresser, but stepped on the kitchen knife that had been on her
nightstand. The sharp blade sliced into the arch of her foot. She
gripped the edge of the bed and cursed as she lifted her foot to
inspect the damage. “Fuck!” She screamed in anger and pain.

“You all right?” asked Jacker from the other
room. “Is this for real, or are you fucking with me?”

Alma cursed some more and tried to hop to
the hallway as her foot bled. The wound gushed and droplets of
blood quickly started to fall to the floor. “Mother fucker.”

“Okay, it’s for real?” asked Jacker. “I’m
coming in there. Okay? Don’t be naked or anything.”

Alma met him at the door. She propped
herself up with one hand on the threshold and the other holding her
foot aloft. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the blood.
His face turned white and his jaw drooped.

“I stepped on something. Can you get me a
towel?”

“Oh fuck,” he said in a whimper. He was
wavering and put his hand on his head.

“Quick,” said Alma. “I’m bleeding all over
the carpet.”

He snapped out of his momentary daze and
nodded. “Okay, sure. Towel. Sure thing.” He spun in a circle in
search of the bathroom, which happened to be right next to him on
the left. “In here, right? Yeah, of course it is.” He retrieved a
towel and then offered it with his arm extended out of the doorway,
as if hiding his face from her.

Alma hopped forward and swiped the white
towel away from him. She wrapped her foot and waited for Jacker to
come out of the small bathroom so that she could go in. He stayed
hidden in there.

“Are you okay?”

“Me?” he asked. “Yeah, fine. Why?”

“I need to go in there.”

“Oh, sure. Okay.” He hurried out of the
bathroom with his hand held against the side of his face, shielding
his view of her.