Of course I don't. I'm a twenty-six-or-seven-year-old fool who's written three or four short stories. I don't really know why I write, and I will not know for years. Sometime in the next decade, after my first book is published, Phil will introduce me at a Honolulu reading as a serious writer whose stories of Hawai`i show that he always paid attention. Phil will be wrong. In my twenties, I am not attentive. I'm scared.
        Well, uh—
        My stammering response is pierced by a shriek.
        The sound bolts us off the railing as if it were electrified.
        Mary grabs my arm. Steve.
        It came from upstairs, I say.
        The screen door bangs open, and Mark rushes out. That's Mrs. Krause, he says—and races across the lanai to the outside steps that climb the side of the house to the driveway and the side entrance to Mrs. Krause's upstairs apartment.
        Phil is only a step or two behind Mark, but Mary hangs onto my arm, holding me back. Don't go up there, she pleads.
        It's OK, I assure her, and pull free. Go inside with Anita—and find the phone.
        I am halfway up the steps when Phil comes flying back down. Look out! he cries, then leaps around me, taking the steps three at a time.
        What's happening? I call after him, but Phil is already around the corner, out of sight. When I turn back around, Mark is coming down the steps as well, slowly, his hands raised above his head. Immediately behind him is a man with a nylon stocking pulled down over his face.
        Move, the stocking says.
        OK, Mark says, as I turn and march back down the steps in front of them. We're moving.
        Just before we reach the bottom, I turn and glance at the house next door. Its windows are dark. Please, I whisper, sending the plea into the deepening night: Let someone hear.
        As we pass the window of Mark's living room, I catch a glimpse of Mary and Anita watching us through the screen. There is no fear in Mary's eyes, only a strange curiosity. So who's this? she says, staring past me at the intruder as we all enter the living room.
        I can tell from her voice and her posture—hands on her hips, one eyebrow cocked—that the spectacle before her has assumed the texture of a dream. This isn't really happening.

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