In the middle of the lane Emily froze, staring at the window opposite. The flashlight beam winked, scouring the interior.

She glanced down the street again. All those vandalized cars! Mr Larson's hot new 1964 GTO among them. The richest man in the neighborhood had a burglar alarm in his sprawling house. Too bad they didn't make prowler alarms for cars.

A station wagon rumbled from the other direction, raking its headlights over Margret's doorstep – heaped with newspapers. A welcome mat for burglars.

Margret must have left town several days ago. But why hadn't she ordered the papers stopped? If Emily had noticed, if only she'd been up for a daily walk through the neighborhood, she'd have tidied up, clucking her tongue at Margret's carelessness.

Emily backed to the curb, thinking to turn and dash for her door to call the police.

Headlights blazed across her.

Framed by Margret's window, a face peered out, staring right at her. The burglar slipped sideways, out of view, toward the door.

He'd step outside any moment! Would he leap to the chase? Was he carrying a club for smashing windows? He'd smash her own windows to get in and silence the lone witness before she could finish dialing!

Emily ran, not for her front door but for the corner. She ducked onto the side road, lined by a hedge.

It was dark back there, but those shining threads of light still lingered. Cats had passed this way.

One gossamer thread plunged into the lilacs. Emily wormed her way in, too, edging sideways between branches then into a gap between hedge and fence. She held still, trying to silence her breathing.

She heard footsteps slapping the pavement.

Closer.

Closer.

A flare of flashlight beam rocketed past, along with the slap of burglar feet, which didn't slow.

Emily sagged against the fence planks a moment, then eased back out to the walkway.

The flashlight beam probed alleys and gardens to either side of the road. The burglar had slowed to a walk, but kept going.

Emily sidled back to the corner, around it to her front yard – such a magical place not so long ago – past her abandoned walker and empty rocking chair, and through the unlocked front door.

She bolted it. She locked every window and closed every curtain, just in case he came back this way. She left the lights out and felt her way to the telephone on the hall desk.

Only seven digits to dial in the dark. She remembered the number just fine, but how to locate the finger holes?

Emily laughed at herself. Filaments of light still traced every movement she made. She picked up the handset and heard the soft buzz of dial tone, waved her hand over the dial three times, and by the dim glow found the hole for the first number.

Spin to the right, meet the finger stop, let go and watch the dial return. How easy could it be? Repeat for each number, hear the relay click and the ring, ring, and then--

"Skowalko Police Station. Is this an emergency?"

Not any more! Emily thought, and told what she'd seen.