A cool breeze kissed his arm, as if a fugitive blast of igloo air had slipped out the back door and found its way out to him. He looked up at the house, dark and still. The back door and windows were shut. Maybe a cold front was moving in. One could dream.

He tugged the hose to the far end of the yard and drenched the base of his oak. Watching the water unleashed the ancient urge—as it often did. He undid the crotch of his pants, and looked around. With only the Parks’ ravaged blue couch as a potential witness, he peed freely.

A myopic hawk flew overhead, grazing the treetop and sending leaves cascading. Then a flock of smaller birds, all cawing madly in pursuit.

“For fuck’s sake!” Raymond zipped up his pants.

Could these actually be the elusive, possibly fictional, feral green parrots of Alta Vista the realtor had yapped so excitedly about? In the evening light, these birds looked more charcoal than chartreuse. Raymond turned off the hose, painstakingly coiling it around the tap so it wouldn’t flatten the grass in the shape of a comatose snake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught something through his study windows. He rushed closer, trying to recall if he’d locked the front door.

“Who’s there?” he bellowed, more a statement than a question. Looking around the yard for a possible weapon, he freed a rusty, cobwebbed tomato stake.

Glancing back at the window, he saw the pale orb again. This time, a human form, made gaunt and vague by bug screens and privacy tinting. Then the specter seemed to register that it’d been spotted, and retreated in a flash.

Raymond ran to the back door wielding the rusty stake. It was locked, from the inside. He kicked at the door in a rage, then power-walked to the front of the house.

“I’m going to kill you!”

The front door was wide open. The sprinklers on the lawn soaked the legs of his pants as he passed.

Through the doorway, his home looked like one black hole. He gripped the stake and neared the threshold. Then he removed his wet, grass-stained clogs and left them on the porch. He entered the house, closing the front door behind him.

Once inside, he darted from light switch to light switch, flicking on every one he could find. The lights did nothing. All he had were dim, wimpy accent lamps with their stupid copper shades—mood, not security lighting. Worthless, effete set dressing. He cursed himself.

He sluiced through the hallway, past the oxblood dining room, toward his study in the back. He peeked around every dark doorway before taking the next step, the way he’d seen detectives enter strange rooms in movies.

“Don’t even think you can escape now.”

Behind him, the front door of the house slammed shut.