This is the 26th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
Please wait outside of the house.
Bridget paused with her hand on the door knocker. Did that mean she should knock and wait outside? Or did it mean she should wait outside until someone came to collect her? How would they know to collect her if she didn’t knock?
She scrutinized the note on the door. The scraggly handwriting said nothing about knocking—and neither did the letter in her hand.
The street lamps illuminated all but the most elusive recesses of the house’s front shrubbery. She could probably count the blades of grass if she wanted, and she thought she wouldn’t really notice if the sun came up. Still, Bridget saw no clue as to why she’d been summoned—or even who had done the summoning. She stood there, arms crossed, and scrunched the letter in her hand. The night air stung her cheeks, and she felt her nostrils begin to burn.
She knocked. The door swung open before her fist connected a third time. A lanky man in a bathrobe blinked at her for several moments before speaking:
“You’re just standing there.”
“The note said—”
“Interesting.” He stepped aside. “Please, come in. Your family is waiting.”
“My—”
“Dinner is getting cold.”
Miles Away 