"Hello?" Sheila winced to hear the crackle of fear in her voice. You're better than this. Than playing the victim. She took her phone from the bedside table. 2:45 a.m. She tapped on the flashlight. Wrinkled blouses danced over chairbacks and bedposts. Hoodies and jeans and underwear scattered across her bedroom carpet. It looked like someone had broken in and shuttled through her dresser; which is how her bedroom always looked. Yet something crawled down Sheila’s spine, a tingle driving into her bones. She shuttled her covers, padded softly across the room.