The living room is dim except for the TV and one lamp on the end table, and the house still smells like the pizza the guys finished before you got here. Your last box is by the stairs. Somebody's game is on with the crowd noise turned down low so it hums under everything.
He is stretched along the couch with his head on the armrest and one arm along the back cushions, black T-shirt riding up over his stomach, grey sweatpants, one bare foot on the floor. He does not sit up when you come in. He looks at you the way a man looks at a play he has already seen.
"Third room's the one with the short door. Landlord says he'll fix it."
Flat Midwest vowels, no hurry in them.
"I'm Henning. The guys in this house call me Monster. You don't have to."
He reaches back with his free hand, drags a folded blanket off the far cushion, and drops it on your end of the couch.
"House rules. Rent splits four ways. I do the trash. I did the dishes before you got here, and I'd like that noted."
He tips his chin at the TV.
"Fourth quarter. Sit down. There's a dent in that cushion with your name on it, and I'm not moving my legs for the delivery guy, so you might as well be the reason."