I recoil, stunned. For the third time today, my pulse begins to race. I fumble for my phone, drop it, then retrieve it from the grass. Who can I possibly call? I spin around in an agitated circle, edge a few steps back, and stop. Am I being robbed? Are my earlier fears of being followed coming true?

Don’t go in. I heed my own warning and pull Jackson’s stroller to the edge of the driveway. Someone is always in the house, or crouched in a closet, or, God forbid, in the shower. I think about the alarm. Did I forget to set it?

Think, Rebecca. Think. I stall on the driveway and call Jess.

“Miss me already?”

“My front door is open.”

“What?”

“I just got home and my front door is open.” Saying it out loud makes me take another few steps toward the street.

“Don’t move. I’ll call the police.”

“You don’t have to call the police.”

“Rebecca, I’m calling the police. Do not go into the house. Do you hear me? I’ll be right there.”

I exhale and push and pull Jackson’s stroller in a lulling motion until Jess arrives.

“God, I hate running,” she pants. Her tennis shoes thud to a halt. She hitches forward and rests her hands on her knees. “It’s for the birds.” She grunts then straightens. “Police still aren’t here?”

I shake my head. A curl of hair brushes my cheek as she loops a sturdy arm around my shoulder.

“Keeping things interesting in old Elmhurst, huh?”

“Where’s Baxter?”

“Nanny. Told you they’re helpful.” She drops her arm as she continues to catch her breath. “Do you really think someone broke in?”

“I hope not.” I think of my cello, my computer, any valuables I have scattered about.

“Maybe you just didn’t shut the door all the way?”

“Maybe.” I always shut the door.

After a few anxious minutes, police sirens bleep and stutter along our street. My fingers tighten on the stroller as I imagine neighbors straining on their front porches, whispering behind cupped hands about the paranoid blind lady. This is not a neighborhood where cops do regular drive-bys. The red and blue lights pierce the blurred veil of my vision, and I squint behind my sunglasses.

A car door opens and shuts and then a lone officer approaches. “Ma’am?”

“Hi, I’m the one who called,” Jess says. “This is Rebecca Gray. She lives here. She’s…”

“I’m blind,” I explain. “When I got back from my walk, my front door was open. And I’m positive I shut it before I left.”

“Officer Toby.” He thrusts a hand in my direction. “Do you have an alarm?”

“I do.” I consider the possibility that I could have forgotten to arm it, but it doesn’t add up. “I always set it before I leave.”

“And the alarm hasn’t gone off?”