Dan was home, because of course he was - where else would he go? Through the doors, maybe, but he hadn't popped through there today. Sometimes he was at the medical facility too, because people got banged up and bruised or cut and he could handle basic first aid, after nearly ten years working in hospice - he decided he really would go through the doors, to get more supplies, and was planning that out when he heard the knock at the door.
By planning out that meant he was attempting to trigger something precognitive - he didn't have tarot cards, or anything to scry in, and mirrors freaked him out (REDRUM, scrawled in blood), but he thought if he meditated and focused, he could make it happen so a vision of the right door would come to him. Then bluejay eyes snapped open and he went to go see who could have come to pay him a visit.
He was surprised, a little, to see it was Bill - surprised in a good way. "Hey," he greeted, letting Bill step inside. "Come on in. Sorry in advance it's not as homey as your place." Dan didn't have a crackling fireplace, or plush furniture, but it was warm inside and he had some furniture - and books, lots of books. They were stacked on shelves and in corners and plants, he had some of those too - things he hoped he could keep alive long enough, because he'd never really tried, in his sad little apartment back home, everything too dark for anything to live.