He reached the last door and paused. The white paint was scuffed near the handle, as though someone had shut it too hard too many times. He turned it quietly and pushed.
Chris's bedroom was small and spare, almost austere compared to the wreckage outside. The bed was neatly made, a navy blanket smoothed tight over clean sheets. A stack of books sat on the nightstand, spines creased from being read over and over. A slim laptop sat closed on the desk beside a graphics tablet, its stylus balanced across the top; the power light still glowed a faint blue in the dimness. A phone charger trailed from the wall socket, empty. The window was cracked open; cold air spilled in, carrying salt and rain and the faintest trace of Chris's scent.
