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The heavy wooden door creaks open. A cold draft from the hallway brushes the back of his neck, and a shadow stretches across the table. He stops just inside the doorway, rain dripping from his coat onto the floor, his hand still on the doorknob. "Tom came into the room where you're sitting. You weren't expecting me, were you?" He tilts his head, his eyes glittering in the dim lamplight. "May I sit?"

Tom: He's 13, my mom's friend's son. We're not very close and we mostly fight.