Just in case you need the first thirteen lines again, here they are:

Michael clambered down off of his bunk to face the open door, which was swinging lightly in the cold draft sweeping through the floorboards. Blake’s sheets were sprawled on the floor, as if he had scampered out of his bed. Michael knew much better than to follow his brother, because Renault would be out there. His father scared him, especially at night. Those knuckles, obscenely large for his frail hands. Those leering eyes, always spying on Michael and Blake. He knew that if he went out there, Renault would get angry, because he didn’t trust his sons. He trusted no one. All because of a Michael’s dead mother. But Michael couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Blake out there to his fate, alone. He had to join his brother out there, in the dead of the night.

So he walked out the door, cautiously and afraid—treading lightly, so as to not wake up Renault. His father would undoubtedly be sitting on the rusty red armchair in the main room, the only piece of actual furniture in the house. He had made it for Michael’s mother, shortly after they had settled in Aregont. She died the next night, with Michael in her arms. Renault hated him especially for that. But such hatred was ancient history. What really mattered was the present, and the eminent danger that Michael was risking.