The room was dark and cold. The old, tattered blanket that lay atop his body did very little to shield him from the cold winter's night. The sounds of other children coughing and wheezing from the chill could be heard throughout the entire room. Turning onto his side, he buried his head into the mattress in an attempt to absorb its warmth.

In the distance, the sound of footsteps could be heard, clapping against the hard stone floor of the hall. As the footsteps neared, the room became impossibly quiet. The coughing, the heavy breathing and wheezes, the squeaking of mattresses, and the shuffling of mattresses -- nothing. All that was left now was the approaching echo of someone walking down the corridor.

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped, and even the blowing wind against the glass seemed to be silenced. The loud squeal of the brass doorknob being turned pierced the ears of every boy, seemingly sleeping in peace underneath the blankets. Just then, a deep thud blasted across the room as the cold hinges of the heavy oak door struggled to stay on its mount. As The door slowly opened, it groaned and creaked until making contact with the metal stop on the wall, which caused a piercing screech, like nails on a chalkboard, to ricochet off the walls of the large but cramped dormitory.

The footsteps continued. He wanted to turn his head, press his face deeper into the mattress, even shrink if he could, but he knew that it wasn't possible. Soon, he could hear the footsteps approaching. For a moment, he thought that they would continue and leave him be, just this once, just for tonight. But then they stopped.

Unable to move or even breathe, he forced himself to remain as still as possible. It seemed like an eternity, though. His muscles were already becoming stiff and sore. Then, the footsteps continued. Not away, toward another direction, but closer. It was odd, he could feel the warmth already, but he knew this was not the warmth he yearned for only moments ago. This heat, this fire, it was unbearable. It wreaked of musk and stale soap, and he could already feel the grime of its filth building against his skin.

"Wake child," said the one belonging to the footsteps, the voice was calm and its breath hot and moist against his ear. "You shan't be sleeping here tonight."

Feeling the hand press down against his shoulder, Peter jolted upward, away from his mattress. Panting heavily and covered with a thick sheen of sweat, he stared blindly at the wall across the room. He turned his head and looked down beside him. Brittany was still fast asleep. "Thank God," he thought, thankful that he hadn't woken her again. Glaring at the alarm clock, reading six forty-two, Peter tossed the blankets off of himself and rolled out of bed.