Writing

It was dark in the room. A dull gray light filtered in through the half-closed blinds. The sun had long set and the night was just taking hold. The bed at the base of the window lay in disarray. Papers and a pile of hard drives sat on the edge. Covers and pillow bunched at the head. The light from the computer monitors, two of them side by side, cast hard shadows. They complimented the dull gray light from the window. In the corner, tucked next to the desk was the crib. Full of junk, and an old foam pad, it was long forgotten and had not been used in the last year.

The shape of a young many swayed in the monitor light, lurching as it were, over the keyboard. He was typing.

Five minutes were up. He suddenly leaned back and stopped.