Tim wanders to the door to listen for footsteps in the hallway. Just like those old paranoid days. Except he never managed to shake that off, not completely. Still the same overly defensive kid.

A soft rattle re-attracts his attention to the kitchen. The paper towel roll spins forlornly toward him, painting a white stripe against the floor. Tim frowns at it, then scans the empty space surrounding it.

Just a passing breeze or a burst of air friction, or something else?

"Was that progress?" he says slowly.