I try

Will it be loud?

Like your car backfiring or

Dropping a stack of plates onto linoleum?

We’re oddly quiet. All of us.  After hours and days and weeks spent in that smoke filled room, playing Mr. Jones on loop. After doing our best to feed our cravings that twisted, writhed and palpated. Begging, begging. Today we air out the room and close the blinds and sit on the ground among the ashes and coffee stains on your mother’s hideous carpet. If anyone knocks on the door, we fall silent and sit still, until they go away.