Opening the backdoor to the patio sets off the burglar alarm, which mom has set to arm automatically, and the sound is apocalyptic. A strident, screaming klaxon, it sends the dog into a howling, barking frenzy until I can get to the keypad in the laundry room and turn it off.
After I apologize to my mother, the dog, and my racing heart, I take the recycling out to the bins in back that sulk in the dim light of a street lamp.
Something about the dark, the quiet, and the suburban isolation, along with the shriek of the alarm still echoing in my head, leaves me deeply uneasy, and more nervous than I’ve ever been in a big city surrounded by arguably greater danger and more people.
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