All he knows for sure is that some one is at the door.
He immagines they're probably wondering why the hell he's not answering it. He knows they all think he's just as crazy as Charlie these days, shoving all of them away. How can he help it? The only one he wanted to talk to was Charlie, but that's the one person in the whole world that he can't talk to.
Why the hell should he let anyone else in?
Charlie had let him in.
Well, even geniuses are bound to make mistakes...
His visitor was growing more persistant. The pounding is growing louder, and that someone has started yelling. "Don! I know you're in there, Don, you can't hide forever!"
He quickly kicks his dirty socks beneath his sofa, brushes a month's worth of crumbs into his trash before shoving at least half a dozen beer bottles into an empty shelf in his fridge. He even bothers to run his hands through his hair and smooth out his shirt.
She is waiting at the door, not all too patiently, tapping her foot and giving him the most reproachful stare that he's ever seen on her face. But whatever. As long as this is just business, as long as she's out the door in five minutes...
She brushes past him, sitting down in his favorite chair- the one Charlie used to use when he came over. He follows her stare to below the couch- a corner of a dirty-striped sock sticking out on his floor...
She ignores the sock. However merciful this gesture is, there is nothing less persistant than her stare.
"I need to know what happened."