You hear a polite knock on the door . The closet door .

I was lying in bed, my blanket thrown haphazardly over my askew legs, with my latest bookstore find clutched between my fingers. Boccherini ’ s “ Celebrated Minuet ” marched tinnily from the phone on my side table. Classic. I turned another page in “ William Shakespeare ’ s Star Wars: Verily a New Hope, ” allowing Obi-Wan to continue explaining the secret identity of Luke ’ s father. Had the music not quieted just so, I would not have heard a slight tapping coming from some corner of the room. I assumed it was my brother stumbling around his bedroom in the dark until I heard it again. Slightly louder now, I realized the tapping was coming from the other corner of my room, from my closet. I replaced the leaf-shaped bookmark near the top of the page: line 27, where I had been interrupted. I looked toward my closet door. It was a rare sight to see it closed in the dim glow of my book light. I pushed myself up and reached for my glasses. Next to them, I found my folding knife and grabbed that as well. I stood up and walked toward the door to flick on my room light. The knocking paused for a beat as I walked toward my closet. I stood outside the white double doors, squared myself, and took a deep breath, flicking open the blade of the knife. I waited for what seemed to be ages before the knocking came again. I quickly reached for the tiny gold knob on my closet door and pulled it open, wielding my short blade. 
 
 “ Sorry to bother you, ” a short man wearing a wrinkled blue apron said hastily, as I stumbled backward into my desk. “ I ’ m here with the Alberta Disability Fund. We are a non-profit organization that raises money for those in need, ” he continued unabashedly. I pushed myself upward, twisting the part of my spine that hit the edge of the desk. “ We help those who, for whatever reason, are unable to get the support they need from the government healthcare service. ” He pulled out a small clipboard from his apron. “ This is Aaron. He is eight years old and in a wheelchair. He needs a wheelchair lift for his house, but the government has decided that it ’ s a luxury not a necessity. We ’ re going door to door to raise money to get him the wheelchair lift he needs for- ” 
 
 “ Excuse me, ” I finally found my voice, which was more broken than usual. “ What are you doing? ” 
 
 “ Well, ” the man ’ s tone didn ’ t change. “ We ’ re going door to door to raise money for Aaron ( He is eight years old. ) so that he can get a wheelchair lift for his house which the government- ” 
 
 “ Hold up, ” I held up my hand to interrupt him. “ You ’ re going door to door? ” 
 
 “ Yes sir, ” the man continued on monotonously. “ We only go door to door when we have a fundraiser. Currently we ’ re looking for funds for Aaron: he is eight years old- ” 
 
 “ So, what are you doing here? ” I asked, trying to stay away from confused, and more toward concerned. 
 
 “ Like I said, we are going door to door. ” 
 
 “ But this isn ’ t a door, ” I cautioned. 
 
 “ We don ’ t usually do this unless we have someone to help out, ” the man showed no signs of slowing down. He showed no signs of anything at all. “ At this time, we are helping out Aaron. He is eight years old and in a wheelchair. ” 
 
 I tried one more approach. “ How did you get into my closet? ” I asked testily. I remembered that I was holding a knife and decided to remind him of this fact by raising it up toward him. 
 
 “ Sir, ” he said with unnerving serenity, “ we ’ re just going door to door to collect donations for Aaron. He is- ” 
 
 “ -Eight years old, I get it. ” I spat, I felt authority rise from the blade I held and poked it toward him menacingly. “ How about you just get out of my house. ” 
 
 “ Sir, ” his eyes never left whatever he was looking at a thousand miles behind me. “ we ’ re just looking for a small, tax refundable donation. Anything helps us toward our goal of eight thousand dollars to get a wheelchair lift for Aaron. He is eight years old. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m still trying, ” my voice began to rise. The man fell silent. “ To get my head around how you found your way into my closet. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m not sure I understand the question. ” The glassy look faded from the man ’ s eyes. 
 
 “ You are inside my bedroom. ” I emphasized each word individually and punctuated it with another jab with my knife. The man stayed quiet and then slowly looked around the room: my bedroom. After a moment, he looked back to me. 
 
 “ I ’ m… I ’ m sorry for taking your time, ” he stammered. He replaced the clipboard into his apron and turned away. He pushed aside some shirts and disappeared behind my Indian suit. 
 
 “ Stupid solicitors, ” I sighed and heaved my closet door shut. I made my way to the light switch and flicked it angrily. Just as I plopped myself onto my bed, I heard another pounding from the closet door. I groaned and pushed myself out of bed again. 
 
 “ What is it? ” I cried, as I pulled open the sliding door. I was met with the slightly hesitant face of a Domino ’ s Pizza delivery man holding a large, insulated bag. 
 
 “ Pizza delivery, ” he said sheepishly. “ Large, extra cheese, beef, and onion, ” he continued as he pulled the white box out and handed it to me. The disdain melted from my face as I received the warm white square. 
 
 “ How much do I owe you? ” I asked. 
 
 “ You… you paid online, ” the delivery man said, his eyes darting away. 
 
 “ Oh. ” I didn ’ t remember ordering a pizza, let alone paying for one. “ Awesome. ” With that, I slammed the closet door in the man ’ s face.
