Zooey blinked down the hallway. Fritz lay stunned next to her, propped up against the door.

“Fritz,” she whispered, “we’ve been blitzkreiged.” She pointed down the hall into the main room which had become the battlefield of Mr.Williamson and his imaginary war on the apartment.

“Fascists?” Fritz said delirious as he squinted in the dim lighting, “Where?!”

“Did you hit your head?” Zooey said. She stood up trailing tinsel on the floor as she walked. Chewed up newspapers lay strewn as if they were carpeting on the floor, and the curtains hung limply to the floor, dangling precariously from the windows. Vinyl records lay scattered in heaps under the shelves next to the sofa which was plastered in the remnants of a cheap Oriental vase.

Zooey decided not to look in the kitchen because she feared the worst. She noted that the only thing untouched in the apartment was Fritz’s dirty coffee cup collection. Fritz walked up behind Zooey clutching his head.

“Look,” he said, “The clock stopped ticking.”