Bob tiptoed toward his bedroom, fingers curled like a thief’s, but the floorboard beneath his left foot emitted a squeak so loud it could’ve startled a sleep-deprived raccoon. He froze. The hallway echoed. A second later, his right foot landed on the same board. Squeak. Squeak. His roommate, Dave, erupted from his room in a cloud of disheveled hair and existential dread.
‘What the—?’ Dave squinted at Bob, who was now mid-sprint, legs churning like a wind-up toy.
‘I thought I was being quiet!’ Bob yelped, vaulting over a couch that groaned in disapproval. He collided with a lamp, which toppled with the dignity of a dignitary in a comedy sketch. The crash resonated like a gong at a funeral.
Dave stared at the wreckage. ‘You’re louder than a marching band in a cathedral.’
Bob, now wedged under a table, muttered, ‘I was just… checking the Wi-Fi signal.’
‘The Wi-Fi’s fine,’ Dave said, deadpan. ‘But your stealth skills are as sharp as a butter knife.’
The next morning, Bob’s attempt to apologize involved a tray of burnt toast and a apology so sincere it made Dave cry. But when Bob later asked why he’d cried, Dave sniffled, ‘I thought you were finally learning.’
Bob’s response? A squeak.
