And two mornings after that, at a quarter to seven on the Friday, somebody put three flat, hard, evenly spaced blows on my front door.

Part Seventeen: Six Forty-Five

It was not a knock.

Everybody who tells this story says a knock.

It was not a knock and it is worth describing properly because the difference is the whole experience.

A knock has knuckles in it.

This was the flat of a hand, or possibly the side of a fist, three times, evenly spaced, with about a second between, hard enough that the wreath moved and I heard it move.

I have since learned that this is taught.