The clock had just struck midnight when the boy woke up with a start. Everything was dark, but there was a dim light cast around his surroundings. Faintly surprised, he noticed that he was lost. He had gone to sleep in bed; he was now in the middle of some street. The boy sighed and touched his heart monitor. He was quite skinny for a 16-year-old, and quite sickly too. Many nights, he often found himself sleepwalking, which was a side effect of his illness, one that had no name. The boy, whose name was Noah, rubbed his eyes and pushed his longer black hair out of his face. Forlornly, he remembered that he had left his glasses on his bedside table. He looked around. He was on Grant Street, which was not too far from his home. With a sigh, he walked down the street under the moonlight; the streetlamps were all broken here. In 10 minutes, he was walking down an unused path to his home. He stared up at the large mansion. He had always lived here, he and his ancestors, down to the first person who had come to this country. That was 500 years ago. The house was eerily still and quiet, and covering the roof was a large murder of crows. Every time Noah tried to bring his few friends home, they would make an excuse and leave. Those people avoided him and never talked to him again. With a sigh, he went through the back door and started to climb up the stairs. He reached the second-floor hallway and crept through to the other side, treading carefully since the floorboards creaked. As he passed his sister’s rooms, he could hear them snoring. They were all sound sleepers. He reached the ladder at the end of the hall and climbed up to his room in the attic. Looking around his spacious bedroom, he felt himself grow more tired. He flopped unceremoniously onto his bed, and within seconds, was asleep.