Jolted awake by the shout, adrenaline snapping awareness of everything about the dorm room against his brain like a taut bowstring, Matt rolled out of bed and into a reflexive crouch, hands held up in front of him. Before his heart could beat a second time, he already knew that the windows and door were still closed and locked, the lights still out, and by the relative silence of the street outside, it was somewhere between one and three in the morning.
Foggy, he could tell by the scrabbling sounds of bedding-restricted motion, had not left his bed, though he was frantically trying to. His heart was racing, but the kind of racing that indicated being startled, not actual fear. And aside from Matt’s, it was the only heartbeat in the room. As Matt processed that last detail the hairs at the back of his neck stopped standing up on end and he let his hands fall, just slightly, as Foggy clicked his bedside lamp on.
“I thought it was my hair,” he said in a shaky voice. “Jesus. I wish you could see this thing, Matt. It’s the size of an egg, and it was on my face.”
“What is it?” Matt asked, though he could identify the tiny pizzicato footfalls of the spider, now that he was listening for it.
“Really, really big-ass spider,” Foggy said, now standing next to the bed. “In my bed, dude.” He must have looked up then, because he snorted. “And what are you doing?”
Matt realized he was still in his fighter’s crouch and he straightened hastily. “Uh, nothing. Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.” Foggy seemed to be enjoying the prospect of deflecting some of the embarrassment onto Matt. “You going to kickbox the spider into submission?”