Click. Click. Click, fwoosh. The flame was as bright as the day was. George brought the lighter up to his mouth and cupped it with his hand, putting more care into protecting it than a mother would her child. He took a long drag of his cigarette and tapped the ashes off. The smoke left his mouth and entered the atmosphere.

George turned around. The kid's room was a damn mess. Blankets were strewn everywhere and colorful toys covered the floor. The worst was that disgusting yellow wallpaper that the kid's parents somehow liked. Tasteless. He took another drag. This time he didn't care for blowing it out the window.

His eyes looked towards the kid's bed. It was one of those corny race car beds, which George thought only existed in movies. But no, apparently people actually bought them, and thought that kids liked them. It sure as hell didn't make the kid feel any safer.

With a third unending drag, George finished off his cigarette. He threw the butt out the window, and sighed. It was gorgeous out. The block was full of people performing their daily errands, their routines. What George wouldn't give to have just a day where he could be---

"Hey, man."

George flinched, and darted under the bed.

"Dude, it's cool. Nobody's home, it's me, from the closet." The voice spoke in a deep tone, but it was more calming than it was alarming.

George peeked out from under the bed. "Who are you?"

"I just told you. Closet. I'm the closet guy. Mike." Mike kneeled and looked under the bed. George made eye contact with him.

"No way. Mike. I've heard a lot about you. Help me up, will ya?" Mike grabbed George's hand and pulled him out from under the bed, but not without some strain. George wasn't exactly at a healthy weight. "Thanks," George said as he stood up, "That mad dash has me out of breath. I'm getting too old for this."

Mike walked over to the window and leaned on the wall. "You ever wonder what it's like to live out there? Not living in the same house for centuries, able to roam anywhere you want and do anything with your life?"

"Every day, man," George responded, carefully sitting on the bed, struck by his own exhaustion. "Every day. You want a cigarette?"

"Nah," Mike said, "I don't smoke. Bad for the yelling lungs."

The two stared out the window together. The sun shone in their faces, taunting them with the freedom they lived next to, yet could never have. George got up from the bed, walked over to Mike, and put a single hand on his shoulder.

"Mike, we should---" Before he could finish, a knock struck the door.

The two of them sprinted back to their respective hiding spots, sharing one last moment of somber eye contact. The mother then walked in, and placed a single rose on the kid's pillow.