The door does not creak when it opens. Inside, a cot, thin, bare. The minimal shelves that line it are littered with broken toys. On the inside of the door are small, tiny scratches, the paint giving way to the raw wood underneath. Little specks of red imbedded in the dents. It paints a painful picture, and the sharp intake of breath that appears behind him, tells Barty that the picture is easily decipherable.