I grabbed a broom. “Let’s clean this up,” I said.

Before the bristles touched the floor, a sharp, heavy knock hammered against the newly locked door.

We both froze. The debt collectors? Already?

The knock didn’t repeat.

Robert let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a lifetime, walked to the door, and peered through the peephole. His shoulders slumped. “It’s just the wind knocking the wreath against the wood,” he muttered, resting his forehead against the heavy oak.

We spent the next two hours sweeping up the remnants of the compass, throwing away the cold breakfast, and sanitizing the guest room. We didn’t speak.