Methodically, I pour a little alcohol in the slashes in the couches, just a few shots from each bottle. I also pour a little trail of liquor between the couches, up to the window where I came in. I soak a rag in peach schnapps, tiptoe to the wall, and give the wall a pat, then toss the soaked rag out the window. I make sure everything is in place. I run up and leap out. I find the rag again, and wipe the window sill with schnapps. This isn’t an episode of a procedural; I highly doubt the law enforcement professionals are going to sweep the scene in search of a fibre of clothing or, more ridiculous still, DNA. I leave the window open a crack, for my insect friends. Already, as I put a little order in my backpack, I can see the ants at work, marching in single file toward that delicious sugary scent, in the red light of the Christmas tree.

Raindrops are pinging down when I leave the patio. I take off my gloves and toque, and put on my raincoat. I casually leave the premises, with one last glance back at the luxuriant overgrown garden. I make sure no one can see me from the windows, though with my rain coat and hood up I could easily pass for a teenage boy.

The street’s deserted. So is the park. I cross it one last time and walk home. I think about the katana. Maybe I’ll come back for it one day. When I get back home, there’s a message from my mother. Good news: the older Fiset brother has been released from prison.

Observing people is a vocational requirement and a personal hobby. I do it for fun because it brings me the happiness of a naturalist observing a troop of baboons. It’s incredible what people will do when they think no one is paying attention. Even in public, walking down the sidewalk, people act differently when they think no one is looking. Some cling to the false belief that no one can see what they do on their balconies. I mean, if you want to fly your freak flag inside, with the curtains drawn, I get it. But outside?