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that could flush out a prowler’s location, I held the pistol in front of me, loaded and ready to go.
    But all she offered was a low grunt before coming up the stairs. Enough to make me linger on the deck for a moment, I tried picturing the layout of the brush and shorter trees closer to our home, since I couldn’t make out a damned thing beyond the back security lights’ reach.
    I gave the dog her treat once back inside and took one last stroll around the main floor. Still nothing amiss...I wondered if it was just a coincidence I woke up when I did, and that my overactive imagination had gotten the better of me.
    Then I heard footsteps on the front driveway, pressing softly against the gravel, and moving away from the house. I thought about running outside and waving the gun...maybe even firing a warning shot. Then I’d demand whoever was out there to reveal themselves before I….
    “ Before I what ?” I wondered aloud.
    Before I got myself killed? Lord knows I have a good enough aim to hit something dead on from a hundred feet in daylight. But at night? Hell no. I’d be lucky to hit anything from thirty feet. Damned lucky.
    So I peered through the front curtain instead, pulling it back ever so carefully. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a dark silhouette was crouched, backing up slowly toward the street. Of course, now the dog figured out what I was up to and let out a shrill yelp. Loud enough to wake Fiona again.
    “ What’s going on, hon?” she asked, groggily, half asleep.
    “ Nothing, babe,” I told her, while giving Gypsy a threatening shush! to make sure she shut the hell up.
    I had to be careful and quick, or else my wife might catch on to what I was doing. Thank God she hadn’t noticed the pistol in my hand.
    I peered though the curtain again. I couldn’t be sure if the figure heard my dog, but that’d be my assumption. Whoever it was now stood at the edge of our driveway, in the street, and probably saw me too, despite my efforts to remain concealed. Right before they disappeared for good, the sucker shot me a bird.
    Definitely not the Good Humor Man.
    A minute or so later I heard an engine start up down the road. I waited nearly half an hour--long after it faded away—before going back to bed, which tonight remained the sofa. Snuggled up against Fiona with Gypsy curled near our feet and the gun tucked safely under a pillow, I kept my ears open for anything else…for our dark-clad visitor to return. It would be the last thing I remembered from that night, other than the dawn’s light creeping in through our living room window, announcing its promise of a long and weary Thursday.

Chapter Four

    There’s nothing like a call center getting ready for a visit from the Big Bosses. Lots of shiny, circus-like balloons and an abundance of pens, notepads, and silly buttons. All bear the name of our employer and the latest illfated promotion. The carpets finally get cleaned past the imbedded popcorn kernels, and every PC and desktop is completely cleared of post-it notes and dust bunnies.
    Such unabashed phoniness.
    But everybody does it, whether it’s Wal-Mart, ATT, or even Nordstrom. Fortunately, their valued customers never see the semi-annual parade of happy horseshit. Hell, if I confessed we’re sometimes the brunt of industry jokes for an enhanced pastel shade obsession, it’d be easy to figure out who my employer is.
    But that’s not the worst part of this corporate American travesty. The worst? That happens when all of the supervisors and their assistants dressed up in their Sunday best gather at the front entrance to the warehouse-sized building we call home. Think of it as a grand procession headed straight up corporate leadership’s pompous asses. I completely envy any of my peers who manage to get the day off, long in advance.
    Back in January, I tried to hide in the back of the crowd, while my peers screamed excitedly when our CEO and CPO stepped out of the long white limousine