The door opens. I freeze. They shouldn’t be home yet. Dropping onto my stomach in the dark living room, I slither my way in between the couch and the wall. “Don’t breathe,” I say, hopefully to myself and not out loud, though I can’t be sure. After an eternity of hearing them recant their day, moment to moment, I recognize the telltale signs of a couple readying themselves for bed: brushing of teeth, flushing of toilet, soft laughing, and the sound of water being poured into a glass that will surely wind up on a nightstand. Feeling cautiously optimistic from my thieves den, I dare to exhale. Then, it happens. They let the dog inside. I’ve never met the dog, but I recognize Charlie, the beagle, right away. And, just when I’m certain a bite or a growl is about to out me, old Chuck retreats. They all go to bed, finally. I hear his snoring. I recognize her sleep app droning on and on about some relaxation nonsense.
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