prepares the evening's I-don't-know-what dose, my eyes look up to the tilting window and fix on the Watsons' house, my neighbors, a few meters away from me. In her front yard, there is a small tree adorned with fairy lights and Christmas ornaments. On the doors, fences and roof gables, little lights twinkle cheerfully. On the chimney, a Santa Claus with a sack of toys tries to invade the place; on the front door, a beautiful wreath. What caught my attention, however, was the shrill and happy cry of the little seven-year-old girl, Lois. All bundled up in a heavy coat, gloves, hat and scarf, she is with her father now, helping him finish a snowman. Her mother-a pretty woman in her forties who works at a rehabilitation clinic in the city center-comes out carrying steaming mugs of what I assume are hot chocolate. The woman hands each one a mug, a beautiful smile on her face that shows she is happy about the moment. Her husband sits next to her on the top step of the porch and the two engage in intimate and animated conversation while their daughter finishes her snowman, taking small sips of the chocolate every now and then. The lights flicker overhead, and Christmas music plays from inside. The image in front of me tightens my chest a little for all the wrong reasons, so I quickly pour myself some coffee and head back to my office. I manage to concentrate on my work for another hour or so before a strange noise catches my attention. I stop typing on my laptop-the keys sound like jackhammers in the silence of the night-and listen carefully. From here, I can hear cautious footsteps on the wood of my porch. My whole body goes cold. My city doesn't have a high crime rate; I've never had a problem with violence or theft in all the thirty-six years I've lived here, but you never know when it will be the first time. I strain my memory, trying to remember if I locked the door with all the locks, but I'm not sure. I've been too absorbed in these files to remember clearly. Anyway, I have an alarm system and a baseball bat that might help. I would have a gun, but I've never gotten around to getting another one. Katherine was a staunch disarmament advocate and convinced me never to keep one in the house. I got rid of the only one I had when we got married and now I feel unprotected without one. But I don't think it would solve anything either. If I'm listening correctly, there are two of them, and if each of them is carrying a gun, it would be two against one. Three against none if they could overpower me and take the object from me. I push the thoughts out of my head and stand up carefully, still listening for the sound outside. I think I hear a baby's mumble, a small voice and a soft shh. I'm about to grab the baseball bat when my doorbell rings. I freeze in place, I don't know if I'm relieved or alert. Burglars don't ring the doorbell, but it could be a trap. I twist the handle of the bat and go into the living room. I squeeze the wood around my fingers and check the other side through the peephole. To my relief, it's a woman, who now has her back to me. I leave the bat behind the door and open it. Only then do I notice that she is accompanied by a small girl, maybe four years old, who was in a blind spot, and a baby curled up in her arms. She carries a few bags hanging from her shoulders, her cheekbones and the tip of her nose are red from the freezing temperatures, and her clothes, gloves, and hat are speckled with snow. "Hi," she says, her voice a little weak. She clears her throat and shakes the hand of the girl next to her, all wrapped up in a coat and blanket, her little chin trembling from the cold. "Sorry to bother you at this hour. My car broke down a few miles from here, I don't know what happened. I need help." I look over her shoulder toward the dark street. This area is far from the busy city center, far from the urban madness, but I know there are other homes in the area. "Your house was the first one I found with someone in it for miles. All the previous ones were empty or no one wanted to help me." I nod, my eyes still fixed on her back. "People usually travel this time of year," I say, looking back at her. "And it's late. I'm not surprised some of them chose not to see you."