52...

There was an ancient chest of drawers which Bryan used to store his clothes in against the wall. The thing had originally been picked up on a street corner, and where it had been before that was anyone's guess. Small things like guitar picks, fast food receipts and pocket change were always getting lost in the dark hole underneath it. From his floor vantage view, Frank could see something just inside the dark cave under the bureau.
He noticed those telltale, curled frays that meant a piece of paper that had been ripped free from a spiral notebook. They sat there, just covered by shadow beneath the furniture like party favors in hiding, like bad confetti. Frank reached his arm out and snagged the piece of paper.
It was indeed a piece of college ruled, spiral bound notebook paper which had been folded in half twice. Frank wondered who the note was for, or from. He wondered if there was some information that was meant to be distributed but somehow got lost on the way. He felt like an explorer of sorts as he began to unfold the paper.
Suddenly everything in him froze and his eyes opened wide. He held his breath and listened very carefully.
He was sure he had just heard something shuffle around on the back deck. The walls were so thin in the house that you could practically hear movement made anywhere, but the sound of someone on the back deck, on that thin and weather beaten wood, was a very specific sound.
It could easily have been a cat, so Frank continued to lie on the floor and listen. He was already keyed up from the insane events that had already transpired today and he felt ready to pounce.
After what felt like a couple of minutes of silence from out on the deck, Frank started to slowly roll over and get up. But there it was again, definite this time.
There was somebody, seemingly wearing boots, walking slowly across the small wooden deck.
Like a dancer, Frank leapt to his feet, shoved the folded piece of paper in his back pocket and moved quickly and quietly towards the back door. He stared down at the contraption that opened this door. It looked like it had once been the handle of one of those trowel things that construction workers used to smooth over concrete. It had been screwed into the old wood of a door that had not existed at the time when this once grand house had been singularly, a grand house.
Frank wrapped his right hand around the handle and steadied himself with feet planted as if ready to burst off of a race line.
‘Screw all you guys,’ he thought, ‘I’ve got the jump on you this time.’