Jenna Morgan

I was deep in sleep when I heard a soft tapping at the window, a sound that didn’t quite fit with the rhythm of my dream. My eyes cracked open, adjusting to the dim light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. The tapping came again, more insistent this time. I groggily sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and turned to the window. Through the glass, I saw a familiar figure—Jenna, her dark hair messy under the hood of her sweatshirt, her face half-hidden in the shadows. She looked small, vulnerable even, as she stood there in the faint glow. I could barely make out the worry etched across her features, but it was enough to shake off the last traces of sleep. I slid the window open, the cool night air rushing in. "Jenna?" I whispered, surprised and a little concerned. "What’s going on?"