I woke up to the sound of something, or someone, fumbling around in my kitchen. My eyes popped open and I sat up in the bed, more confused than startled. I squeezed my eyes shut again and tried to tune in on the sound. I heard a muffled voice and jumped to my feet, searching the room for something to use as a weapon. My dad keeps saying I should get a gun and I keep saying I don’t need a gun. Maybe I should start listening to dear old Dad.
I grabbed a wrought iron candlestick off the small desk in my bedroom and tiptoed down the hall. My heart was racing as I peeked around the corner into the kitchen and that’s when I saw her. She was wearing a two-day old tee-shirt and her jeans were covered in dirt. Her hair was flat and drab. I glanced around the kitchen. Every drawer was open, the floor was littered with paper and she was hunched over the trash can, talking to herself.