My heart pounds as I let him in, trying to appear calm.
He moves through the apartment with practiced efficiency, noting the state of the walls, the floors, the fixtures.
And then, he reaches the bed.
His eyes scan it, taking in the ropes, the pegs, the worn wooden frame.
He jots something down, the sound of his pen scratching against the paper fills the silence.
I can’t bring myself to speak, to ask what he’s writing.
The weight of his judgment hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive.
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