I was in Don's room. The energy felt off. The air was thick and stagnant. The only sound was the occasional drip of water from the faucet. I walked over to the window and looked out. The sky was dark and ominous. A storm was brewing. I turned back to the room and noticed the bed. It was unmade, the covers in a tangled heap. I approached it cautiously, as if it might bite. I reached out and touched the mattress. It was cold. I pulled my hand back sharply and backed away from the bed. Something wasn't right. I could feel eyes on me, watching me. I spun around, but there was no one there. I look out the window and I see a mob of men masked with torches. My time is up.