Neighborhood Watch

Four missing college girls.

Three possible suspects.

Two bodies pulled from a lake.

One audiobook.

The streetlights and moon cast eerie shadows on my morning walks. My dog doesn’t care. Darkness doesn’t dull scent, if the number of times he tugs on the leash is any indication. Each fallen leaf and signpost is worthy of sniffs.

I get lost on these walks. Not literally. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for eleven years. But I do get lost in books. My AirPods are basically bodily appendages at this point. In the time it takes to walk the two-and-a-half-mile loop, I have traveled years through time, flown across continents, invested myself in the lives of people who don’t actually exist.

Though sometimes I read nonfiction.

The exercise is good. My dog’s breed is prone to heart disease, and my body is prone to high cholesterol. These morning walks add steps to our lives.

Except when they don’t.

On this particular morning, I’m in a thriller. The plot isn’t original. There are dead girls, suspiciously handsome men, and conflicting narratives. I haven’t figured out who the killer is, but my money is on the dad. There’s something weird going on there.

I am just crossing the main street into a darkened neighborhood when I hear someone call out.

“Hey there!”

I walk faster. A woman in a lone car is shouting through her open driver’s-side window. “Hey!” she calls again.

I pretend not to hear and assess the front porch of the nearest house. I know who lives here. It’s a couple with two young kids, a big dog, and a great treehouse they’ve built in their backyard. It’s an option if I need an escape. They won’t be awake for a few hours, but I don’t think they’d mind if I used their porch as a refuge. Worst-case scenario, I can ring the doorbell. They don’t seem like the type to answer the door with a loaded gun.

I keep walking. Maybe the driver has lost interest. But then I hear the engine rev as the car turns onto the street. She pulls to a stop, shouting at me again.

There’s no one else around. I can’t pretend she’s calling to anyone but me.

“Hey!”

If I’d been raised in New York, I could have kept walking without turning my head. But I was raised as Midwestern as tater tot casserole. I can’t be rude. Even if I’m about to be murdered.

“Yes?” I pause and cautiously turn my head.

“You better be careful in this neighborhood,” she says.

I’m afraid she might be right. I just nod and listen.

“Especially in these really dark areas.”

I swallow. “Oh yeah?”

“I’ve seen a fox running around.”

“A fox?”

“Yep,” she says. “So be careful.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks so much!”

“You’re welcome,” she says. She gives a wave, performs a three-point turn, and exits the neighborhood.

I continue my walk, stepping away from especially dark bushes. Occasionally I step into the street where the streetlights aren’t filtered through the heavy tree branches.

The truth is, I’m not scared of foxes.

I’m scared of strangers yelling at me before I’ve had my coffee.