She tried to reach up to cradle her head in her hands and block out what little light there is from the cracks in the shutters and under the door but found that her body wouldn't respond to her demands. She tried again, and only received a twitch of the fingers for her efforts. That had to have been a hell of a night. What else would leave her like this. She didn’t even remember what kind of drink the stranger bought her let alone his name.

She hears footsteps outside the door and her heart begins to flutter. She doesn't understand the reaction of her body. It's just footsteps, right? For all she knew she had made a complete fool of herself last night and the stranger only took her home with him to let her sober up. So why was her heart trying to jump out of her chest?
The footsteps were getting closer. Then they stopped. She wondered what scared her most. When the footsteps were moving or now that they had stopped?

A hand jiggling the door knob. Her heart jumps into her throat to choke off her scream of terror. Why is she so scared? This could be the answer to all her questions about the night before. Is it something that her subconscious is trying to tell her? Or is it just that she's jittery about waking up in a strange place? Whatever it is, she wished that it would stop it. Slowly the door groaned open on rusted hinges and a head appeared. An old head. An old, female head.

"So the sleeping beauty awakes, eh? Nice of you to join us in the land of the living," screeched the mouth from its bed of fine lines.

Her mouth worked but no sound could squeeze past the lump of fear in her throat.

"Alright, alright, don't talk to Granny. No one ever does when they first wake up. I guess you're not a morning person, eh Deary?"

She shook her head in answer instead of trying painfully to speak without killing her throat.

"I'm guessing that you're confused. They always are when my poor Timmy brings them in. In answer to the questions that are running through your aching skull, today is Saturday the fourteenth of July and you're in Dallas, Texas. You are not dead, nor will you be anytime soon, I hope, and this is not a scene straight from Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Now, you are going to get up and get a shower while I make you some breakfast and put the clothes that you were wearing last night in the dryer. Towels are under the sink and bathroom is the first door on your left outside of this room."

The next thing she knew, the old head was gone and she found herself obeying the orders she was given without thinking about them.

After her shower, she wrapped herself in the fluffy blue robe she found on the back of the door and followed her nose to the kitchen where she could smell maple syrup and coffee. Once she was safely ensconced in a chair in front of a plate of waffles, the old lady started talking again.

"There now, feeling any better now that your head isn't pounding quite as much? Of course you do. That's a silly question. The better question would be, where are you headed now?"

She bowed her head in thought. "I guess I'm headed home to my parent's house in Ft. Worth. That's the best place for me right now I think."

"How will you get there, Deary?"

She thought hard and wondered if perhaps she still had at least part of the money that she started out with last night. If so then she probably had enough for a bus ticket home. "I'll probably take the bus."

A half hour and a quick change later she was at the front door with a brown bag lunch in her hand saying good bye to Granny. "Thank you for everything ma'am, and please thank Timmy for me too."

"It was nothing, Deary. And you can thank him yourself on your way out. He should be in the front yard. Be a dear and tell him that his waffles are getting cold, would you?"

"I will ma'am." She stepped out the front door and onto the perfectly groomed lawn closing the door behind her. She looked around for the mysterious Timmy but only saw an old wreath of flowers. Stepping closer to read the flowing script on the ribbon stretched across it, she stepped on the only bare patch of dirt in the entire lawn.

With a gasp, she dropped her brown bag lunch and took off at a dead run, the memory of the message on the ribbon burned into her brain.

Little Timmy Cartwright, Rest in Peace.