Like Silent Raindrops Fell by quiesce
Dan takes a step towards the phone then changes his mind. Even if the lines are working and he manages to get through, what is there to say?
He flips through the news channels one last time on the off chance that they've stopped airing footage that cannot possibly be real but they still play the same clips again and again. He turns off the television, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door.
Casey's apartment is near by, relatively speaking: an easy trip by cab or subway, but too far to walk under ordinary circumstances. These are not ordinary circumstances. He trudges slowly through the crowded streets. Every two blocks or so, it occurs to Dan that leaving his own apartment might have been a bad idea. He's very alone out here, surrounded by strangers, and maybe if he returns home and doesn't turn the tv on and keeps the blinds closed and goes back to sleep, he will wake up and everything will be as it should. On the other hand, if he keeps walking, he'll get to Casey. He keeps walking.
He almost passes Casey's building by, zoned out and thinking about nothing except to keep taking another step. The elevator seems to take hours to reach the lobby and hours again to ascend to Casey's floor.
Dan fumbles with his keys, unable to remember which one goes with this door. Casey must have heard Dan in the hall because he opens the door and stands back to let Dan in. He opens his mouth to speak but Dan leans forward and keeps leaning until Casey carries much of his weight and Casey decides this is more needed than any words he could have come up with.
Eventually Dan pushes back until he's upright and they shuffle out of the doorway and over to the couch. By unspoken agreement, they move together, staying within arm's reach when not in actual contact. Casey throws a blanket over them and they huddle up in front of the television and wonder what's happening to the city, the country, the world.