8th floor

You go through the door, and close it quietly behind you. There’s nowhere for you go, nowhere to hide, so you go and stand over by the table, putting it between you and the door. Your back’s against the windows, and you look out. Through the wind and the rain, you see the reflection of the surface of the water. It’s risen to almost your level.

You’re eight floors up. There’s not enough water in the world for this to happen. You hear the door open, and you turn to face your fate. The torch beam picks out a shambling figure, wrapped in rags and plastic. Davy. It has to be Davy.

Also, it can’t be Davy. You know that it’s not Davy.

He staggers towards where you’re standing. Slowly. So very slowly. Look at all the time you have.

“I did my best for you. I did what I thought was the right thing,” you say. It doesn’t matter. There’s no point in trying to reason with him. Davy’s not in there. He’s now at the other side of the table, and he bends down, extending a pale hand to take the edge of it and throw it aside with unexpected violence.

Do you:

Close your eyes and wait.
Grab one of the chairs and hold it in front of you.