Thousand: Four Hundred Twenty

swings out with the quietest creak. He touches the knob of the wooden door. The voice inside, is it inviting him in? The knob turns and Bernie pushes, the warmth and light reminding him how cold he is. He steps into a shabby lobby. A slouching couch, a shag rug of tangled orange, a dusty floor lamp with a cracked shade, a wooden counter worn three colors. “Close the door!” says the voice which Bernie sees belongs to a man with a long black beard, two precise gray stripes framing the chin. A deep scowl line striking up from his