Right hand splayed on the shingles like a starfish, the left white-knuckled on the edge, she works belly, chest, and one thigh onto the roof. Blowing out her breath, as if that will make her lighter, she gingerly lifts her remaining foot from the porch and drags her toes into the rain gutter. It holds her weight—sort of; she can feel it straining outward. Undoubtedly it is plastic. Whoever remodeled this house left no corner uncut.

Flattening her body against the slope of the roof, she inches away from the porch. The asphalt shingles sandpaper the skin on her cheek and palms. Her feet scuffle in the uncleaned gutter. Chunks of old leaves are bulldozed up and fall in hushed plops on the gravel below. Hoping the racket is louder to her ears than to those of the monster, she shuffles inch by inch until she is far enough away that a big man, with long arms, cannot reach out and grab her.

Rose is motionless and silent. In several seconds the noise from the monstrous intruder’s egress through the window ceases. Rose prays his racket deafened him to hers.

Grating of rubber soles mincing heavily over shingles lets her know he is out and is coming around to the front. Rose wishes she’d experimented with bashing his brains out via the bed stand. She resists the urge to turn her face in the opposite direction. Some things have to be faced. Death is one of them.

The sound of steps stops. The light beam traces the edges of the porch roof. Rose breathes in through her nose and silently out through her mouth, willing her body to relax, to melt into the shingles, to become as thin and attached to the roof as wallpaper to plaster.

A sandy scuff of shoes lets her know Monster Man is moving away, going back the way he came. He thinks the house is unoccupied. Few people would believe a grown person—even one as motivated as Rose—could squeeze through that narrow window opening. Rose hadn’t believed it herself until she’d done it.

That, or he believes the occupant has gotten off the roof somehow and is running for the police. Whatever he believes, he seems anxious to get offstage; the front of the house is spotlighted by the streetlamp.

More piggy grunts. He is back inside the bedroom. Rose can feel a slight shuddering of the house as he stomps through the bedroom and down the stairs. Under her feet the plastic guttering moves half an inch, cracking faintly.

An unmistakable crystal cacophony of breaking glass reaches her ears. For some reason, he has exited the house through the patio doors, then stopped to break out the glass. Why break the glass on his way out? He’d not needed to break it to get in.

Shoes on gravel. He has given up. He is leaving.