"I got it," John protested. Yeah, he had it. He was leaning heavy on the arm that braced against the door frame, holding the little knife in a reverse fist and dragging the blade against the wood. He looked like he might pass out standing there. Still, he was remarkably efficient about it, raking the words into the frame at a steady sort of pace. When he was done--and it didn't take too long--he wearily folded the knife and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. His eyes turned to the bed.
John wanted to take the coat off. He wanted not to have to crush his smokes, or sleep on the light and new pocket knife. But John wasn't so sure taking the coat off was safe. Who knew what could happen. John turned back to nudge the door closed. A little snick marked it locked, and John turned away toward the bed.
He settled his little dilemma by digging out the cigarettes and the cough syrup--priorities--from his coat pocket and setting them on the nightstand one the right side of the bed. The lighter and knife, and whatever else was in that pocket remained.
John half sat, half collapsed onto his side of the bed and propped his elbows on his knees. He let his head fall forward into his hands and raked fingers up through his hair. This was a nightmare.