Back in Apt. 1112
Legs crossed, dark red pump rocking impatiently in the
air, she sat on the couch and stared at the door
opposite her over her glass of equally red wine. Her
only movement included blinking and the occasional tip
of the glass to her waiting lips. The only sound heard
was the constant drip, drip of the sink.
He was late. She had been courteous enuogh to call
ahead of time, an entire day in fact. He said he'd be
here at 8:00--it was now 8:06. Drip, drip, drip...It's
not like she expected him to be here exactly at 8:00,
he had to travel all the way to the 11th floor, to
room 1112. That took time, she understood. She was so
understanding, she'd give him an extra two minutes to
get here--drip, drip,drip. She put the glass to her
lips--drip--and took another sip; How does one know
they've taken a sip or not? How does one measure a
sip? Does it matter, no one's here--drip, drip--to
dictate how much I have...no one's here to even object
to alcohol in the morning anymore...doesn't matter.
She grinned to her self as she raised the glass to her
lips. She shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of
civility that surrounded this place. Ever since she
got back a week ago, she'd endured the stupidity,
incompetence, and outright retardation that are the
people that inhabit this hell hole. Washington
Heights--drip--how she missed it's grime covered walls
and it's less than adequate heating system. Drip--it
was depressing, it probably violated every health code
possible,--drip--but it sure beat where she'd recently
been--drip. It's not like being there had been hard,
but--drip--she desired, nay, needed her freedom. Yeah,
he was late, but it was better than the blatant
disrespect that she'd suffered--drip, drip--there. She
went by Coley, not Nicole. She hated that name, and
she tirelessly reminded them of that everyday, but
they--drip--refused to get it right, claiming they
knew better than her what she deserved. She turned
her head to the clock hanging--drip--on the wall near
the--drip--window, 8:11--drip. She got up, oblivous of
the glass in her hand, oblivious to the crash it made
as it met the unforgiving hard wood floor, oblivious
to the sharp remains surrounded in a crimson pool. She
began marching to the kitchen to do something about
that annoying drip of the faucet. She stopped short of
the kitchen when she heard the rap at the door.
She sweeped around to look at the door, hand on hip.
Knock, knock, knock. She walked to the door, slower,
purposeful. She stopped at the door, hand on the knob.
She didn't turn the handle, instead she closed her
eyes and inhaled deeply...She thought back to why she
had to leave in the first place...Knock, knock--she
was in control. She opened her eyes and turned the
knob.
"You're late."
"Look lady, you're not the only person in the world
that requires my services."
Nicole wrinkled her nose, he didn't sound nearly as
bad as he smelled.
"Are you gonna let me in?"
She thought about it. Might as well, he was here for a
reason despite his obvious lack of repsect for her
time and her patience. She stepped aside without a
word, glaring at him all the time. She glared as he
dragged his feet to the kitchen, as he took out his
tools, as he began to examine the kitchen sink.
"So what's wrong with--what happened?"
This was unexpected, didn't he hear the constant
vexing drips of the damned sink? Yeah, he obviously
came from a worse shit hole than she'd ever been, but
was he really this dense? She hated ignorance. She
turned to where he was looking.
"What the hell's wrong with you? I want you to stop
that damned dripping,"
She lit a cigarette while she spoke, which she now put
to her lips--last one, needed to go out later and get
more.
"The mess doesn't concern you, fix the sink.'
8:17. She watched him work, leaning on the wall,
taking a drag every so often. She thought on his
tardiness, his rudeness, his abscence of self worth:
shoddy clothing, no people skills, no reason to live.
She looked at the sleek wrench sticking out of his
toolbox, it was everything he was not: clean, strong,
perfect...useful. She thought about ending the misery
of this fulfilled object. It'd be easy to eliminate
one more counterproductive organism that God puts on
this earth out of pure laziness; It'd be easy to take
that lustrous metal across his dirty face, to hit him
again and again, to hear his futile screams, to watch
his pathetic attempts to defend himself. Then again,
he might not defend himself: he's worthless, surely he
knows that. Surely he'd know that no one would
possibly come for him, of all people...
"That'll be--." He looked all the way up at me.
Without knowing it, she found herself not an inch away
from him, wrench in hand, cigarette in the other.
"Get out."
He heard a calm voice, but he saw a troubled girl, a
demented gleam in her eye. He hastily grabbed his
tools (leaving the wrench) and stumbled to the door
and left. She walked over to the door, grinning to
herself, and grabbed her jacket and boots nearby. The
leather felt cool on her skin, the contrast of her
deep red dress with the black boots and jacket pleased
her immensely. With the supply of her daily morning
drink on the floor, she needed to get her buzz from
somewhere else; she also needed to celebrate her
recent victory. Wrench thrown on the couch, she left
apartment 1112 and headed to the bar down the street.
It was good to be back.
8 comments:
What was I supposed to do now? There was no canned milk. What the hell was I going to do?? I rummaged around one last time behind the canned green beans and peas, hoping against hope, but no. There was nothing I wanted there. I dreaded what I knew had to come now. I had been thinking about it, building myself up for the terrible act that I would have to commit if this situation were to arise. And it had. So I had to do it.
I walked slowly towards to refridgerated aisle, making sure to keep my breathing regular and steady. I paused before turning the corner onto that dreaded aisle, took and exceptionally deep breath, and stepped onto the aisle. There were several people there, including a striking woman in red, but my mind immediately drifted towards the shelves. Oh those terrible shelves. The cartons and jugs glared at me from row upon row of cold metal shelves. Those shelves and their contents often haunted my dreams, and I would wake up, afraid to even breathe. I was going to die. "Hush, Maria," I murmered to myself, glancing around me to see if anyone noticed my somewhat odd behavior. A red basket hung on an arm, filled with shiny glass bottles brimming with various liquids. How I approved of her choices. So neat and clean and contained and safe. I wished that everything came packaged like that.
But the woman with the basket continued to stare at the shelves, assessing which poison she would take home with her. And the people around me eyed the jugs and cartons like pieces of dripping meat straight from the slaughter, picking and choosing as though each one were different, as those the eyes alone could decide which would be best. I was so afraid of making my choice. What if I chose the wrong one? "This is all they have, Maria, so just suck it up. Think of the kitten. Deep breaths, Maria, deep breaths." The woman looked at me questioningly, but I wouldn't meet her eyes. I looked up and down the rows of plastic, thinking how easy it would be to slip something into one, how simple it would be to slide that needle gently through the side above the liquid line and then back out again, unnoticed. I shuddered. Poisons, diseases, other liquids, and then everything would be tainted, destroyed and terrible.
Movement next to me brought me back to my current situation. The woman was stepping back from the shelves and walking away, leaving the cartons and jugs untouched. She must be an intelligent woman to have grasped the truth about them, I thought. I wonder if she always looks at them and then walks away, or does she sometimes take something with her? Does she realize what danger she is in everytime she stands so close to them? "Close, too close," I muttered, and took a quick step back myself. "But I need it." Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. "I need it." Breathe in. "Yes, I do." Breathe out.
I stepped forward and picked up the jug of milk closest to my reaching fingers. One percent. Expiration date still nine days away. The jug looked alright, nothing strange and white and floating in it, no discolorations, no dents in the jug. "You can do this, Maria," I said quitely. I moved the jug to where it hung suspended above my own little basket and took one more breath. I began to lower it into the basket. That was when I saw it, a tiny hole, a pinprick, a needle incision, on the cap.
I tried to tell myself that it wasn't really there, but before I had even gotten through saying the first word of reassurance outloud, I had dropped the jug on the floor, not caring that it split down the middle and milk started to run across the floor. I let my basket slip from my arm, hearing the bottle of olive oil break and the tomato smash. I wrapped my arms around me as tightly as I could and ran. I ran down the aisle and through an open checkout line. I ran out of the store and down the street, jumping the sidewalk and landing in a giant puddle where water was rushing into a drain. I ran even though the rain was pelting down and my umbrella was still neatly packed away in my purse. My scarf slipped from my shoulders, landing in the street like a stray red thread would on a grey carpet, but I didn't stop to pick it up, I just kept running. I ran until I had reached my apartment building, dashed up nine flights of stairs, and run to my very own door.
The nine that I had super glued there this morning (to protect it from certain theft) stared cheerfully out at me, but I would have none of its good humor. I turned my back on the door and slid down the wall until i sat, a dripping mass, in my very own doorway. I shrieked when I looked down at my hands and thought of milk. Ripping open my purse I tossed things out until I found that little bottle of hand sanitizer I had purchased from the conveniant store. I poured the entire contents onto my wet hands and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed until there was no more. Then I sighed, leaning back against the door, all the while tears streaming down my face.
A dim shadow flickered over my knees as a figure slipped out of apartment 981. I wondered for a moment at the oddity of it, but then ignored it, another mystery for another time. The weary face looked surprised to see me, but not at all amazed that someone would be sitting on the floor in the dirty hallway, purse contents lying haphazardly around them, crying their eyes out. Kevin came and sat down next to me, back against the wall. He looked across the hallway at his closed door. "So," he said eventually, "Are you going to be alright?"
The little bag bumped her leg with each step,
Holding important things that she still kept.
A collection of souvenirs found here and there,
Around local places, for travel was rare.
An old pocket watch was her favorite of all,
Though each hand never ticked, its meaning stood tall.
The gold engraved letters held value so high,
That with a quick sale, her pockets wouldn't dry.
But none of that mattered, no price of a dime,
Could ever outlast the one second in time.
The moment the clock held, a quarter 'til two,
Trapped memories so fond, from which her heart grew.
So with every thump the bag made at her side,
Ms. Snazy Filazy built positive pride.
She walked a few blocks looking up and then down,
Searching between the shadows, where life's truly found.
Tracing over the bricks, sternly sealed, made to last,
Through every tough time, not torn down from the past.
"You can not concentrate," she thought quietly,
"On negative things, or else you might be,
Taken over by darkness, creeping through the light,
You have to stand strong, you won't fail if you fight,
With all of your heart, with all of your love,
Think of warmth, think of heaven, think of sunshine above."
But her thoughts became scattered and knocked back behind,
A strong, red-dressed woman with an impatient mind.
Her black boots stomped by with no word of regret,
On a mission for something her eyes had been set.
So Snazy reached out with a "pardon me" sigh,
But the woman strode on without any reply.
Stumbling forward, away from the hate,
Snazy tripped over hope and fell right into fate.
The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.
505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.
She slid the shiny, smooth stockings over her long, lean legs. She shivered as she felt the satin of her corseted bodice hug her curves. She gasped for air as each closing inch of the zipper forced what breath she had left in her frail, shaking body outward. The yellow toe-pinching pumps stared at her from the corner. The fluffy feather boa rested on her chair like a python awaiting its next victim, and the elaborate head dress onto which she had painstakingly sewn four thousand twenty two shimmering sequins sat waiting in its garish oppression. She had waited for this moment, but this was not how she had pictured her debut at all. She had wanted the luxurious dressing room of Hollywood starlets with the multi-bulbed lighted vanity mirror and sumptuous costumes draped around the room. Instead, she was in the sketchy bathroom of the bar down the street from the looming Washington Heights apartment building. Faucet-dripping, light-flickering, dirty, smelly, gray insanity was closing in around her. She opened the creaking door into the rancid bar smelling of spilled beer and wasted hope. The lurid light flooded into the bathroom and she slammed the door closed strangled with anxiety.
Lola snapped out of her dreamy flashback as the imitation rain shower began to drip brown, cloudy water on the fruits and vegetables in the produce aisle of Manny’s Grocery. She was picking yellow pears, or at least what was supposed to be yellow pears, and she watched curiously as a woman she knew from her apartment building, Delilah Plunk, delicately selected five and only five red apples. Lola had never heard this woman speak, but she seemed so lovely. To Lola, everyone seemed lovely. Lola marveled at her adorably plump fingers as they caressed each red apple before gingerly placing them into the bag. Delilah glanced Lola’s way, but Lola quickly averted her eyes, batting her long lashes. Lola grabbed her grimy pears, and scampered away to pay for them.
Lola made the short trek from the Manny’s back to Washington Heights avoiding the strange and disturbing stand housing a stuffed tabby cat. She waited on the uncertain elevator, optimistic that today it would not stall in between two floors. The doors opened, already this was a good sign. Standing there in the elevator was another lovely person. Lola was speechless. This woman was breathtaking. Her bright red lips, full and pouty, matched perfectly her beautiful red pumps. Lola had to know this woman’s name... and perhaps where she had purchased such gorgeous shoes.
"Hello there... um my name is Lola," she said sheepishly."
"Lemme guess. Are you a showgirl?" the woman said with a smirk as a flood of wine-scented fragrance filled the elevator.
"Oh my goodness gracious, however did you know?" Lola giggled.
"Lucky guess, I suppose," the woman said rolling her eyes. "Anyway, my name is Nicole Lee Carmine," she slurred.
"What an absolutely lovely name," said Lola as she clapped giddily.
The elevator screeched and lurched to Lola’s floor, and as she bounced off with her yellow pears in one hand, she excitedly waved goodbye to Nicole. "Wow." Lola thought. "What an interesting woman, and she seems ever so friendly. I bet she’s a movie star. Oh fiddledede, I forgot to ask her where her shoes were from."
Molina Rose Blog 2
Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, hundred, one-ten; I made one hundred and ten dollars. At least I made a third of the rent. Cheap bastards. That was a long night. What time is it? 5am, it’s too early in the morning to go to sleep. I’m not ever gonna get up if I fall asleep. I can’t go out. It’s too late for that.
I ain’t seen Coley in a while. I’ll call her later. Maybe I’ll go to sleep, just for a little while, not like I got a day job to get to anyways.
“Ring, Ring, Ring…..” She’s not pickin up again. Hope nothin’s wrong with her. I’ma have to stop by the café later and see what she been up to.
Its cold outside I need to wear my jacket. I can’t ever find that damn thing. Ha, here it is.
Sketch coffee, good one Coley, doesn’t make people nervous at all.
“Hey Dylan, where Coley at? I ain’t seen her in a while.”
“Dunno,” he mumbled, “she hasn’t been in yet. She’ll probably be here soon.”
“Aight, let me get a cup of coffee while I wait.”
He’s not bad looking. She only hires the good-looking ones. Here she comes.
Damn, I know that bag isn’t full of booze.
“ Out pickin up your breakfast I see. You all stocked up for the day?”
She got that that look in her eyes, I’m not bout to start riding her today. She’s already been drinking anyway. Wouldn’t make a difference what I say, she’ s not gonna hear it.
“Where you been at? You don’t answer the phone no more. I was worried bout you.”
Silence.
“Coley, hell is wrong with you? Where the fuck you been?”
The Task
At the sight of Patrick's body, Kevin's heart was gripped with grief. No, he thought. I must maintain my composure until my task is complete. Kevin paused a moment to collect himself. Finally, he was ready.
Snapping latex gloves onto his hands, Kevin somberly trod to the steel table. Picking up a silver scalpel, he held it up, where it glinted in the light of the bare bulb dangling directly above the center of the table. "So much has been done," he exclaimed, enunciating every word with utmost care. "More, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation!"
With that, Kevin bent down to cut the stitches that held together the corpse's chest from his previous incisions. Kevin then pulled apart the sides of the rib cage like the bascules of a drawbridge, the corpse's sternum having been delicately sawed in half. Inside Patrick's chest cavity, a collection of electrical wires intertwined with the blood vessels and sinews, the result of Kevin's three years of labor. Several of the wires originated at either of two points on opposite sides of the heart, corresponding to the places where the two pads of a defibrillator are placed. From there, the wires branched throughout Patrick's body, down his arms and legs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Scars all along his body verified their presence. However, Kevin's greatest task was yet to come: Reinvigorating Patrick's brain. Kevin knew that drowning deprived the brain of oxygen, the real cause of Patrick's death. Cardiac arrest was a secondary effect. His years as a lifeguard had taught him that much. After one final inspection to ensure that the wires were properly secured, Kevin refolded Patrick's rib cage and began to sew up his chest again, delicately lacing the stitches from the corpse's navel to the space between its collarbones.
Now that the corpse's chest had been sewn up, Kevin was ready to start on the spinal cord. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of it. It was going to be a long night.
Doffing the gloves, Kevin cracked open the door of apartment 981, surveying the corridor for signs of human life. Seeing none, he slipped out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. He sprinted down the stairs, out the front door of Washington Heights, and down the street to the coffee/convenience store, not wanting to lose any time that could be directed toward his precious task. He ordered an extra large black coffee with a double shot of espresso from the red tee shirt-clad cashier, and, upon receiving it, dashed back to room 981 as quickly as he had come.
Kevin gently set the coffee down and locked the door behind him. Turning to face Patrick's body, he was filled with a tingling sensation: he knew the day was drawing near when he would have Patrick back. Taking a sip of the coffee (slightly burnt as usual), he felt his veins surging with caffeine, amplifying the feeling of excitement. Kevin wondered if this is how Patrick would feel once the lifeblood began to flow through his veins again.
But never mind that. He had to get back to work. Kevin gently rotated the corpse so that it lay flat on its chest. Having once again donned a pair of gloves, Kevin cut two slits in Patrick's back, one on either side of the spinal cord. He then began to dexterously thread a wire through Patrick's vertebrae, starting near the pelvis and working his way up toward the base of the skull. It was a long and tedious process. Kevin alternated each vertebra with a sip of coffee.
Several hours passed, and Kevin had only inserted a wire on one side of the spinal cord. He would have to save the other side for the next night. Taking some surgical tape that he had pilfered from the free clinic down the street, he temporarily closed the incisions. Peeling off the gloves, he turned to the door. At the door, he paused to steal one last glance at Patrick for the night and to whisper, "Good night." Then, a glistening tear rolling down his cheek, he slipped into the hallway.
Walking through the corridor to his apartment next door, Kevin was brought back to reality by a faint whimpering. He froze. Maria was sitting in front of her door, sobbing. Kevin panicked. No one was allowed to know that he had been in apartment 981. No one. No one should have the opportunity to come close to suspecting that he was up to something. Kevin hoped that she was too caught up in her tears to notice that the apartment he had come from was not his own. He sat down beside her and waited for her crying to subside.
It was finally 7 pm. Clio flipped the sign on the front door of her shop so that “Closed” could be read from the street. It had been a long, busy day. The delivery service portion of her business had been overwhelmed. She usually didn’t have to leave the shop for deliveries herself, but today she had been forced to descend into the SMARTA station herself, balancing huge buckets and boxes carefully so as not to spill the array of red roses, pink carnations, and white lilies onto the grime covered concrete of the subway steps. Once she finished locking up the register and pulling down the metal grille that covered the front of the store, Clio left through the back, setting the security alarm as she went. She crawled through the hole in the vacant lot next to her shop. She had cut that hole herself last year with a large pair of wire cutters she had borrowed from her brother. She was walking towards the street when she noticed that the vacant lot was, in fact, no longer vacant. Her face broke into a grimace of revulsion. “Will stuff while you wait!” proclaimed the sign that dangled from around the neck of a bright orange taxidermied cat. As she passed the front of the booth, the young woman running it smiled and beckoned her over. She smiled back but hurried on down the street as quickly as she could. The booth worried her. Hopefully the woman only taxidermied on request….
. . . . .
She entered the small coffee shop just as a gust of wind swept down the block. Her hair blew across her face, covering her eyes and causing the grocery bags that hung from the fingers of her left hand to twist and cut off her circulation. The wind was cold. She was glad she had gone by her apartment to change into jeans before she ventured out to complete her part of the preparations. When she reached the counter, her order was taken by a pretty woman in a strikingly red shirt. Pulling out her wallet from her purse, Clio searched for the extra quarters she was always meaning to spend. She smiled and apologized as she handed the woman several dollars in change, but the woman did not return her smile.
. . . . .
She was almost asleep when she heard the knock on the door. She pushed herself of the couch and rubbed her eyes as she walked to the door. She checked the peep hole for security's sake, but it was who she was expecting. She hadn't asked him to come; he had simply volunteered. She pushed the deadbolt back. She greeted Ollie warmly, inviting him into the kitchen. She handed him one of the now cold to-go coffees and a mug and pointed him to the microwave. It would be a long night. He suggested they watch a movie to pass the time.
. . . . .
She knocked again on the door, louder this time. “Ryan! Wake up!” No answer. “You said you would help us!” She raised her hand to knock again. The door opened suddenly. A very sleepy Ryan stood in the doorway. He peered into the gloom of the hallway. Ollie was leaning against the opposite wall and tiredly watching the action. A small gym bag sat at his feet. “It’s tonight, is it? I thought we were doing this tomorrow.” Clio groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Alright, alright, give me a minute…” Clio smiled.
. . . . .
The tenants of Washington Heights rarely used this door. She had carefully observed it for two weeks to make sure of this fact. The saw made a horrible shrieking noise as it cut through the thick metal of the ground floor door. Clio worried that someone would hear, but the only night guard was asleep in the small entrance way all the way on the other side of the building. Still, Ollie stood guard at the end of the hallway, just in case. Clio stood staring in front of the window while the saw whirred on next to her. She thought for a second she saw a flash of movement but gave it up to her imagination after watching for a few more minutes. The noise stopped. “Alright, now you can do the rest,” Ryan said, standing.
. . . . .
The elevator door slid open. Ollie and Clio stumbled sleepily into the hallway, Clio digging in her bag for her keys. She looked up when she heard a voice. “Ma’am, is this your apartment?” A policeman stood directly in front of her door. “Yes it is. Is there a problem?” “There’s been a break-in at a shop down the street. Grow Towards the Sun. The alarm system was triggered. You're the owner, correct?”
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