There was a note on the kitchen table from the fire department apologizing for smashing her door frame. Below this was a disclaimer that indicated that the fire department was not responsible for any damage done to the property caused by their efforts to put out the fire. Below this someone had scrawled “Sorry!” as an apology for the disclaimer. Below this was a section labeled CAUSE OF FIRE. “DEFECTIVE ELECTRICAL APPLIANCE” was checked. Below this, written in very small print, was a notice that she would most likely be receiving an invoice for the cost of the fire department’s services. The sandwich grill, now a blackened mass of warped metal and charred plastic, its cord snipped off, sat sheepishly next to the note.

Having satisfied herself that nothing had been stolen and that the damage was limited to the scorching of her cabinets and defacing of her carpet, Christine collapsed into one of the chairs that had been moved aside to make room for the ketchup drawing and regarded the inverted symbol. She noticed an empty ketchup bottle that appeared to have been precisely placed in the corner of the breakfast nook with studied carelessness. So, she thought. At least it’s not blood. Bloody waste of ketchup though.

She wondered who might have wanted to do this to her condo. Presumably a member of one of the cults she had covered over the past three years, someone who wasn’t happy with the coverage they had gotten. She racked her brain trying to think of which group might be using a backwards swastika as a calling card, but came up with nothing. Maybe it was just bored kids, or a disgruntled neighbor who had found out that she was a sixteenth Jewish on her mother’s side? But the note said that the fire department had forced the door open, which meant that it had been locked when they showed up. So… someone who had a key to her condo? That made no sense either. And what was up with the sandwich grill fire? Had the vandals intentionally seized upon the damaged appliance to create a fire? Or had they gotten hungry partway through their vandalizing? That seemed like a stunning lack of commitment even for your typical street hoodlums.

She called the police to report the crime, making the mistake of referring to the ketchup drawing as an “inverted swastika.”

“A swastika?” asked the young woman who had answered the phone, suddenly very concerned.

“Well, it’s inverted,” said Christine. “Backwards.”

“Oh, it’s a backwards swastika?” said the woman, a bit let down.

“Yes,” said Christine. She went on, determined to regain some momentum, “They used nearly a whole bottle of ketchup. It’s all over my breakfast nook.”

“But it’s not an actual swastika.”

“No,” Christine admitted.

“So this wasn’t a hate crime.”

“A hate crime?”

“A crime committed against you because of your ethnic, religious or gender identity. A hate crime.”