At some point in the night I stirred awake to sounds in the house. I listened to the downstairs rear door squeak. Footsteps crossed over the kitchen tile; boots, not high heels. It became silent then, and I kept my eyes wide open, on alert. Who could be in the house? And why? What did he or she want? I didn’t have cash laying around for easy access. The flat-screen television worth anything because it had just turned four years old a week ago. I didn’t have valuables in the house. No high-priced paintings, antiques, clothing, Italian shoes, rings, watches, or other belongings.
Fear tangled itself around my mind, and I imagined the worst things happening to me: tied up to the bed, underwear cut off, and then taken advantage of by some hulking and creepy man with a unibrow, acne across his
