In the morning the light forces its way through the dirty window panes. The invisible becomes visible as dust dances, twirling in the light. Maybe it’s the curve of your shoulder, the curl of your hair spinning, smiling. The shaft of air is warm and as I exhale it’s the heat of our bodies but as I inhale it’s cold.

Maybe I’ll grow gills and go looking for you in the dishwasher, next the bathtub. I’ll imagine you water and every breath will surround me in you. I’ll just keep swimming, giving you carbon dioxide and taking your oxygen. When you evaporate I’ll trade in my flaps for lungs and go looking for you where there is nothing, rescue you clinging to pairs of nitrogen and oxygen with inhales and exhales.

A gift for Nicola’s 10^th birthday, but it wasn’t really hers.  It was a “keepsake”; it was something to “save for when she had kids.”

Nicola was not going to have kids.

Her parents were still in the living room with her grandmother as she snuck past.  Once there was a lull in the conversation, they would remember the cake and ice cream in the fridge.  The teddy bear was squished under one arm; Nicola pressed it hard against her side so the metal and glass inside wouldn’t clink.  The straps of her armguard bound her brown skin.

They kept her bow and her arrows in the garage, as if keeping them out of sight would keep them out of her mind.  Her uncle had given them to her a few weeks before along with lessons at the local club.  Her parents weren’t satisfied.  A certified instructor and even a solemn promise to never take down her bow without their knowledge barely qualified as trust.  They forgot how true a promise could be if you wanted something badly enough.

Her quiver was hung on the edge of some white plastic shelves.  The shelves sagged under the weight of neglected paint cans and dirty rags, but the sides held firm against the wall.  Five arrows shifted inside as she slid the quiver down; their tips were blunted steel and the fletching was bright yellow plastic.  Her knees weakened a little at the sound, at the thought of what she was risking.  The bear looked up at her, lumpy head pulled to the side in limp apathy.  She took a shaky breath and moved on.

Getting her bow was a different matter.  It was a green plastic recurve bow with a molded black rubber grip.  The bow was laid, unstrung, across two hooks over the back door.  The sun was setting on that side of the house so she could barely see it with the glare coming through the window.  She wheeled her bike back to the door, the wheels disturbing the grit spread across the concrete.  Bracing the bike against the wall and the pedal against the kickstand, she stood and used one of the arrows to flick the bowstring free of the hook.  Nicola grabbed ahold of it and quietly pulled the bow off its restraints.

A chair scraped inside and someone stomped further into the house.  She waited, heard the pipes rattle as the water ran.  Still no one missed her.  She tied the quiver to a belt loop on her jeans and went out the door.  The sun shone on her black hair and on the spider webs she dodged.  The unstrung bow was in her left hand; the bear smothered under her right.

Nicola walked quickly across the backyard; her shoulders felt heavy, like phantom hands were pushing her on.  She was afraid that if she turned her head, she might find she had gained an audience.  Or see someone in the windows and hesitate.  She didn’t turn.  Noise scraped her ears: the grass beneath her feet, the swishy flop of a loose armguard strap.  Her uncle would be so disappointed.

The day he gave her the set, they had a talk right before he left.  They both stood by his truck in the driveway and he had crouched to her level.  He said, “Listen, Nick, we both know how much you wanted this.  Just be fair to your parents and follow their rules, ok?”  The possibility that they might not let her keep her bow clenched her heart.  She bit her lip and, when she could talk, asked why he couldn’t keep it at his house.

“That isn’t the kind of secret you keep, Nick.  Not just because it’s a weapon.  You don’t lie about your actions; you own them.”

The walk down the property line seemed to take an hour but she made it behind the garden shed without any discovery.  It looked like a barn out of a picture book with red siding and white trim that seemed to glare at her.  On the other side, there was a bale of hay and a nailed target.  She set the bear down with its mirror belly gaping open.  A few paces away, she stepped through the opening of the bow and bent the upper end over an exaggerated jut of her hip, sliding the string into the notch.

The first arrow went through one of its stitched eyes.  A bead of sweat, a piece of hair irritated one of her corneas.  Nicola was not crying.  The force had knocked the bear back, tilting the mirror so she could see herself.  She paused, straightened her posture, and aligned her waist on an even plane.  She hated this goddamn girly bear.

Nicola pulled another arrow and sent it through one of the paws.  A seam split; stuffing and purple fuzz came loose.  It tangled on the hay, caught on the yellow fletching.  A memory ghosted through the back of her mind: her mother’s hands in her hair, asking why she couldn’t grow it long enough to braid.  Two more arrows pierced her target.

Finally, she sent the last arrow through the mirror itself, just to see if it would break.  The metal broke, but the head clanged strangely against the atomizer inside.  She lowered her bow and stood undecided.  Was the glass shattered or was something inside still whole?  Suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to look inside the bear’s belly.  The longer she stood there, the more the hole gaped at her.  Nicola heard the back door open and ran to meet whoever it was, her hands ready to surrender the bow.

I go to the drawer where we keep the keys. My wife and I are older than most of the other couples on the block. We’ve lived on this street since we first married and have watched families come and go. It’s a stable neighborhood; homes here are sought after by young couples starting out. We’ve felt no need to move. We’re looked up to here, I believe, and are considered dependable and generous. Our neighbors greet us on the street and in the winter we can usually count on having our walks shoveled for us. Because we rarely travel, we are often asked to watch houses, feed pets, and water plants while the homeowners vacation. We have, therefore, quite a collection of keys. I sift though them now, reading labels, considering choices. Finally, I choose the Whittaker’s key, and slide the drawer closed. I trade my slippers for tennis shoes, slip on my jacket, ease open the front door and step out into the night. The neighborhood is quiet, as one would expect at this hour. I can hear the trucks shifting gears on the highway a mile or so away. In the distance, a dog barks once, twice, and then is still. The air is crisp and fresh, and the sky is clear.

I cross the street and cut across the Morgan’s front lawn – there’s no frost yet, so my footsteps won’t show – and walk around the side of the Whittaker’s house to the kitchen door. I always avoid their front door. It has a tendency to creak despite my best efforts with the WD-40.

The kitchen door opens quietly and I am in. While the first moments of stepping into a strange house still brings me a chill of excitement, I find that the greatest satisfaction comes later, when the rhythms of the sleeping house become my own.

Meanwhile, standing here in the Whittaker’s kitchen, the refrigerator is humming, and the room is lit by the icy blue lights on the microwave and stove. I can smell the faintest whiff of the Whittaker’s dinner – something Italian. I see the milk has been left out so I open the refrigerator and put it on the shelf. As long as I am there, I help myself to some grapes and a slice of cheese.

I move deeper into the house. In the dining room, the plants on the sideboard under the window are dry. I water each one carefully. Then I pick up one pot and dribble just a few drops of water onto the wood, replacing the pot carefully. The water will creep along the foot of the pot and tomorrow, when Jill moves the plants to catch the morning sun, she will find a circular white water stain on the mahogany. I stand for a minute, enjoying the thought – the image – of her lips pursing with displeasure.

I climb the stairs slowly, skipping the third step, which pops loudly when any weight is put on it. I drift down the hall. Jared, the six year old, has kicked his covers off and is curled tightly against the chill in his room. I pull the covers up over him and wait. In a few minutes I am pleased to see him relax and unfurl, warmed again. I see one of his electronic toys sitting on his dresser. I slip out the batteries and put them in my jacket pocket.

Next door to Jared, the baby, Melissa, is sleeping soundly in her crib. She’s still so small, but lying there with her fists flung out to either side she looks like a little pugilist, ready to fight her way through the night to the next morning. I wonder what it’s like to hold a child that small. My wife and I will sit houses and pets but we do not sit children. We never had any of our own. I wouldn’t know how to behave with a child. I would be afraid of causing a child harm. Their smallness, their fragility, screams danger to me.

I take the baby’s doll out of the crib and place it on the windowsill, within sight but, I calculate, frustratingly just out of her reach. I watch her for a moment longer, my hand lingering just over her head, feeling her warmth. But I dare not touch her.

I move down the hall towards the master bedroom. The door is ajar and through it I watch them sleep. Mark is snoring and Jill is an almost silent mound beside him. I wonder what might be hidden in the drawers of their room. I could always come over when they are away, but there’s no challenge in that, no thrill. I watch them sleep for a few more minutes, then back away. I’ll leave the drawers for another night.

Back down the stairs to the kitchen. I open the fridge again and take out a beer, leaving the now-empty grape stem in its place. The opener is in its usual place in the drawer by the sink. I move into the living room, and sit, sipping the beer, fidgeting with the bottle cap, feeling the differences of the house surround me, until I sink into them, until the house feels as comfortable as my own and I relax. Jill redid the room last year and this is one of the more attractive living rooms on the street. The older furniture was more comfortable, though, more welcoming somehow. Housekeeping is important to me. I won’t go into the Fairchild’s house any more. Jeannie is not a good housekeeper and the clutter and dust bother me. She wouldn’t bat an eye at a water stain on her furniture.

The furnace kicks in and, after a moment warm air blows across my face. I finish the beer and decide it’s time to head home. But as I grab the arms of the chair to pull myself up, I hear the baby cry out.

Almost immediately, Jill gets up to check on her and I hear her call out to Mark that the baby is feverish. I sit back down, caught in the living room, in the dark, and listen to the baby fuss and cry. I listen to the rattling in the medicine cabinet, the dispensation of the Tylenol, the discussion of whether or not they needed to cool her off with a washcloth. I can’t decide what to do, whether it is safe to leave. This is the first time anyone has wakened during one of my visits and I am finding it strangely hard to breathe.

Once more I begin to rise and then, suddenly, the hall light is on, making me blink, making my eyes tear slightly. Mark is stumbling downstairs, past the living room’s darkened entrance, toward the kitchen. I hear him open a cabinet and run water and I heard the clink of a glass being placed on a countertop. I sit back, mostly in the dark, with a slice of the hall light cutting across my lower legs and sneakers. I am wondering what I can say if Mark finds me, if I could successfully plead the confusion of the elderly. I am more excited then I have ever been since I first began visiting my neighbors’ houses. My heart is beating loudly in my ears and my breath has quickened. Mark passes through the hall again and up the stairs, snapping the hall light off once more. The darkness descends like a comforting blanket, wrapping me in safety. Within the hour, the baby’s fever is down and they have all three settled back to sleep.

My breathing is back under my control; my heart beats steadily. It’s definitely time to leave. I toss the bottle cap on the floor under Mark’s recliner, but quietly rinse the bottle out and add it to the recycling bin. As I begin to open the kitchen door, I notice the coffeemaker, set to make the morning brew. I pull its plug from the wall.

I walk home slowly, relaxed and at peace. Before going into my own house, I sit on the porch and watch my neighborhood for a few minutes. The Whittaker’s, the Grant’s, the Barbarossa’s. A light goes on in the Morgan’s bathroom. Perhaps someone is ill…usually no one wakes in that house until 5:30. But within a few minutes the light is out again and the house is dark. The sky has clouded over, and there is an indefinable feel to the air that lets you know that autumn has definitely taken grip. The chill is beginning to work its way into my bones. It’s time to call it a night.

Back inside, I hang my jacket neatly; slip out of my tennis shoes and into my slippers. I stand for a moment, savoring my night at the Whittaker’s, and then I head upstairs. As I enter the bedroom, my wife stirs.

“Where were you?” she asks me.

I pause. “Visiting the Whittaker’s.” I say, finally.

There’s silence from her side of the bed. She’s motionless, her back unreadable.

Then she turns toward me. “I was thinking,” she says, “that I might visit the Hirschs’ tomorrow night.”<–>