The Locked Door

The reason why the door happened to be unlocked was really this: it was always unlocked. It's not that everyone just assumed it was locked either. They knew it was. There was a sign on the door that read, Keep door locked at all times. So clearly the door was locked. Except that when Sally turned the knob (out of sheer desperation and knowing full well that it was a futile attempt) the door opened, and Sally practically fell into the room on the other side.

"What are you doing in here?" Someone asked, but Sally wasn't listening. After straightening herself up she began looking around the mysterious room. It was incredible. If Sally imagined heaven this is what it would look like. There were books everywhere, on shelves, on chairs, on the desk, even on the floor.

Okay, that was actually the only heavenly thing about the room. Other than that it was a pretty standard office. There were some plaques on the limited wall space, a coffee maker in the corner, the familiar hums of a computer and printer, and the tiniest window known to man which was covered by a heavy curtain.

"I said," the voice spoke again, "what are you doing here?"

Sally had been staring at one of the shelves, and was about to pull out a book. For some reason it hadn't occurred to her that the office - and the books - belonged to someone, or that that someone was in the room. She turned in the direction of the voice and was met by a pair of the angriest eyes she'd ever seen.

"I'm so sorry," she said, embarrassment rushing through her body. "I didn't realize there was anyone in here." Then, in a ridiculous attempt to make the situation better, she added, "I thought the door was locked."

"If you thought the door was locked, why did you try to open it?" He asked, still clearly angry. "And why on earth would you start going through someone's things if you thought they weren't there? Were you going to take that book?"

The book was in her hand. She had apparently grabbed it as she turned around. "No!" She cried, dropping the book as if it had burned her hand. "Shit. No," she said again, picking it up and returning it to the shelf, "I was just looking. Which is also really weird. I was just..." She was babbling. Sally took a deep breath and started over.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Sally Clark. I'm an English major... which is not really relevant. I'm sorry I barged into your office. I really did think it was locked, but I tried it because I was desperate. I needed to hide."

The evening's events were coming back to her and the fear must have been visible on her face because the man's eyes - his entire face really - softened, and when he spoke he sounded concerned. "Why did you need to hide? Did something happen to you?"

"No," she said in a small voice. "I was out with some friends and these guys they know. At least, I think they know them. Anyway, they all got really drunk and wanted to go to another club, but I didn't want to join them. So one of the guys said he'd walk me home. Except he started getting really grabby and tried to kiss me and..." She trailed off again. "Anyway, I pushed him off and ran away, but he followed me. So I was trying to find a place to hide, but all the doors were locked. Except this one. Which says it's always locked."

He had moved while she was talking. When he came back, he was holding a cup of tea and the book she had pulled off the shelf. "I don't really like people," he said.

"I can go," Sally said automatically, and started for the door.

"No, don't," he said. He reached out to take her arm, but stopped himself. She'd clearly had enough of guys grabbing her for one night... or a lifetime. "Please," he said instead, "sit down and have some tea." She took the mug from him and he cleared some books from the couch. "You can stay as long as you want to." He was quiet for a moment and then said, "You should report that guy to campus police. Or the real police."

"I know," Sally said, taking a sip of the tea. "I will, I just... He might still be out there and I just need to not be out there right now."

"Then stay here," he said, sitting down at his desk.

They sat in silence for a while, Sally sipping her tea and leafing through the book, and the man staring at his computer screen. "What's your name?" Sally asked finally. "You never said."

"Anthony - Tony - Montgomery."

"Nice to meet you, Anthony Tony Montgomery, thank you for letting me stay here." He smiled at her, but her eyes were closed. "Are you a teacher?"

"No. I'm doing my PhD in comparative literature. This is technically my dad's office, but he doesn't use it ever so he let me have it."

"Oh," she said absentmindedly, "I think I might be in his class."

"Yeah, a lot of people are. It's a popular class. Do you like it?"

When Sally didn't answer he turned around. She had fallen asleep. The tea cup was on the floor and she was holding the book - his book, his only published work, the only book on his father's shelf that was purely personal, that hadn't at some point been used for research - to her chest. Tony got up, took the rest of the books off the couch so she could stretch out if she wanted to, he grabbed the blanket off the chair in the corner and covered her with it, careful not to make too much noise.

As he sat back down at his computer he heard footsteps outside and wondered if it was that guy. He considered going out there and confronting him, but doubted it would do any good. He'd probably only manage to get beat up. He took a sip of his coffee - his cold, old coffee - and got back to work, making sure he hit the keys as gently as possible.

When Sally woke up he'd offer to go with her to the police station, she shouldn't have to do that alone.