I stood absolutely still, trying to breathe slowly and quietly, praying nobody would come upstairs. Signora Romano’s footsteps went along the hallway into the kitchen. I heard the fridge door opening and closing, the pouring of something into a receptacle, and then she returned to the hallway. She spoke to her father, who didn’t respond. She said something curt but affectionate, the Italian equivalent of ‘silly old fool’ I guessed, and went into the living room. I saw enough of her over the banister to observe she was carrying a tray. She turned on the television. I heard the machine-gun rapid banter of a game show host, canned laughter.

I couldn’t see into the room but imagined Matilde was sitting down in front of the TV, enjoying the snack she’d prepared for herself. If I was going to get out of her house without her seeing me, this was my best opportunity. I crept down the stairs, one at a time, testing each board to ensure it didn’t creak beneath my weight, my heart pounding like a drum. The front door key was in the lock and bolts above and below had been slid home. A fly bothered my face, its buzz loud as a chainsaw.

At the foot of the stairs, I held my breath. The wheelchair was facing away from me, and no sound came from Matilde’s father. I thought he must be sleeping. I stepped down into the hallway; took the two steps across the tiles that brought me to the front door. I reached up my hand to the top bolt and tested it. It was stiff, it wouldn’t move. I tried the lower one. That slid back easily.

A roar of laughter came from television and Matilde laughed too. I held the door handle to keep it steady while I turned the key. The lock retracted with a clunk that nearly stopped my heart. I held my breath, waiting for the old man in the wheelchair to jerk upright or ask what was going on, but he didn’t move. I only had to slide back the top bolt now and open the door. If Matilde heard, I’d still be out before she could reach me. I counted backwards from three, then grabbed the bolt with both hands and pushed as hard as I could. It slid back and I gave a gasp of relief and reached for the door handle. I tried to turn it but it didn’t give. The door wouldn’t open. I’d missed some mechanism. I rattled the handle. It still wouldn’t open.

Shit, shit, shit, what now?

In the living room, the television went silent. I imagined Matilde sitting still, listening out for me as I listened for her.