Had Michael been more well-intentioned, more sincere in his show of concern, he might have wondered about the blanket Cynthia was covering herself with. However he was only focused on her state, and the ideas the latter was making take root in his mind.
He went back to close the door, taking along the way the bag Cynthia had left on the couch when she had returned from the funeral earlier. The smell that assaulted Michael felt a little stronger than earlier, but his mind, focused on the opportunity he was seeing, which was making his eyes gleam, made him shrug it off.
He hurried outside, his jacket destabilizing a lamp on a cabinet he passed by, and by the time he closed the door behind him, the lamp fell and crashed onto the ground.
Michael paused at the noise, before he resumed walking without turning around. He put Cynthia's bag on the backseat, and was about to start the car. But at that moment, he was startled by a weak voice:
"...home."
