As in, we're moving in ten days. Only ten days.
We were going to leave sooner, but it made more sense to wait a few more days. It's not easy to wait. Henry can't sleep. Every night the people above his room commence the most unbelievable racket. It's not just stomping or shouting or dropping the occasional, I don't know, small appliance. This sounds like they're playing Toss the Furniture every night. Slam the Moped on the Linoleum. We turn on a fan and play music in his room, but half the time we have to sit with him until he falls asleep. It takes a while.
The rational part of me thinks we're perfectly safe here for the time being, but the primitive scaredy-cat part is screaming GO GO WHATAREYOUDIOTSWAITINGFOR. The other night, after Scott had gone to bed, someone knocked on the door. It was 11 pm. I crouched on the other side, listening, frozen, bathed in cold sweat. They kept knocking. Fortunately it wasn't loud enough for the dog to hear, because he would have come running, which would have alerted the entire household. Just me and someone on the other side of the door, rapping quietly.
I realize this probably wasn't someone coming to kill us all. Nor was the plumber, who came knocking at around noon, a few days ago. I was in the bathroom and heard Scott answer the door. Then nobody said anything. Immediately my brain decided he was in trouble. Silent, puzzling trouble. And again, with the cold sweat! All over my body! But it was just the (odd) plumber, who thought we had a problem (we did not; he had the wrong door) but instead of saying something, decided to stand there and stare.
It's been cold out. This is good. When it's cold out the people in the building don't congregate on the stoop. They don't run in and out of the building, shouting and slamming doors. Ten more days. I don't care if it snows. Let it.