Today’s my lucky day. I’ve been exploring a new neighbourhood for a few weeks. Suddenly, there it is. Sleek, black, and silent. 147 BTS. I note the address. I come back several times. I’m carefully plotting my next move.

I conduct a few tests, one of the benefits of living alone.

Then, one rainy night (no one goes out running on rainy nights in November), I take the tube of insulating foam with me. First I carefully wash the can in the sink (for fingerprints, you never know). I put on gloves. I take my umbrella. The aerosol can is in a plastic bag in my big satchel.

I go out and walk to the address. It takes precisely two hours and forty-seven minutes. The SUV is there, gleaming like a killer whale. I fill the exhaust pipe with insulating foam. Not too much, just enough to block the pipe once it dries. I put the can back in the bag and leave again. It’s dark and deadly still. I’m the only one on the road. It’s a residential neighbourhood, there are no cameras, and no one would leave their dog outside in weather like this.

It takes another three hours to walk back. It’s 2:00 a.m. The carpeting and ceilings welcome me home with their exquisite aroma of old ashtray. And that’s the end of the story. I’ll never know what happened with the SUV. I’m not stupid enough to stand around waiting to find out.

I’ve developed a bit of a habit. At first I thought about using a potato, but I hate the idea of wasting food. And there was always the chance that when the car started the potato might shoot out like a cannonball. The last thing I wanted was collateral victims. Trust me, it happens; I’ve tried it before. The summer we weren’t allowed to play outside I stole a potato from my mom. It ended up in the neighbour’s exhaust pipe. Just a test. He started his car: the potato was catapulted against the wall of his house. Instant mashed potatoes. My neighbour never noticed a thing.

Another option would be a good old-fashioned tire slashing, but that’s too risky for my liking. Blades have never been my thing. I’m also scared of the tire exploding, even if my rational mind knows it can’t happen. Plus the idea feels uninspired since I’ve seen it before, in a Kundera novel where one of the characters gets off on randomly attacking car tires along his jogging route. Not to mention that used tires have to be disposed of, which causes a lot of pollution. At least mufflers get recycled. There are armies of scrap metal guys dedicating their lives to recycling metal.