He's standing on the porch looking at the swing, which is attached by rusty chains to bolts in the ceiling. He'd been napping, and the hair on the back of his head is flattened from the pressure of the cushion. The porch is screened in, and through the thin mesh he can see the Honda motorcycle parked in the driveway. There's a gray plastic tarp wadded up near the bike. It's probably to protect it from the salt he can smell in the air. He can't hear the water, but he knows the ocean when he smells it. He doesn't know how he got here.
This has happened before.
The screen door squeaks, and he shades his eyes against the sun, which is only hidden by the barest wisps of cloud. It's mid-afternoon, and he yawns as he examines the yard. Not much grass, no other vehicle but the Honda. He looks back towards the front door, but no one else appears. Something is telling him he belongs here, but he can't remember why.
This has happened before.
There's a mailbox at the end of the sidewalk. Its painted black except for where rust spots have eaten through the last coat. He opens it, finds mostly junk addressed to 'Occupant' or 'Resident'. Amid the advertising flyers, he finds the electric bill and peers at the little plastic window. It has his name on it, carefully typed in the small space available. 'Connor Reilly'. He looks at the house again, then tucks the mail back into the box. Closes the little door. Okay, so his name hasn't been changed this time.
This has still happened before.
Clothes not belonging to him are in the bathroom, and the bra drip-drying on the shower rod makes him decide not to be there for a little while. Not until he's got his head on straighter. The afternoon is silent around him as he pads off away from the house, down the street to the left and in the direction of the water. He needs to think and sort out what's going on as much as he can. Before he finds out who he's sharing the house with.
This shouldn't have happened a second time. But it has.