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out his handcuffs.
    “I don’t believe this,” the burglar said, obeying with (I imagined) the wearied resignation of someone who’s been through this before. “What did I do?”
    The first cop didn’t answer, just snapped on the cuffs. “Please step inside, ma’am,” the other officer said.
    I finally unfroze from my hands-in-the-air position and staggered inside. Angus dragged the field hockey stick in behind me before abandoning it to zip in joyous circles around my ankles. I collapsed on the sofa, gathering my dog in my arms. He licked my chin vigorously, barked twice, then bit my hair.
    “Are you Ms. Emerson?” the cop asked, tripping slightly over the field hockey stick.
    I nodded, still shaking violently, my heart galloping in my chest like Seabiscuit down the final stretch.
    “So what happened here?”
    “I saw that man breaking into the house next door,” I answered, disentangling my hair from Angus’s teeth. My voice was fast and high. “Where no one lives, by the way. And so I called you guys, and then he came right up on my porch. So I hit him with a field hockey stick. I played in high school.”
    I sat back, swallowed and glanced out the window, taking a few deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. The cop gave me a moment, and I stroked Angus’s rough fur, making my doggy croon with joy. Now that I thought of it, perhaps whacking the burglar wasn’t quite…necessary. It occurred to me that he said “Hi.” I thought he did, anyway. He said hi. Do burglars usually greet their victims? Hi. I’d like to rob your house. Does that work for you?
    “You okay?” the cop asked. I nodded. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you?” I shook my head. “Why did you open the door, miss? That wasn’t a smart thing to do.” He frowned disapprovingly.
    “Uh, well, I thought it was you guys. I saw your car. And, no, he didn’t hurt me. He just…” said hi. “He looked, um…suspicious? Sort of? You know, he was creeping around that house, that’s all. Creeping and looking, sort of peeking? And no one lives there. No one’s lived over there since I’ve lived over here. And I didn’t actually mean to hit him.”
    Well, didn’t I sound smart!
    The cop gave me a dubious look and wrote a few things in his little black notebook. “Have you been drinking, ma’am?” he asked.
    “A little bit,” I answered guiltily. “I didn’t drive, of course. I was at a wedding. My cousin. She’s not very nice. Anyway, I had a cocktail. A gin and tonic. Well, really more like two and a half. Possibly three?”
    The cop flipped his notebook closed and sighed.
    “Butch?” The second officer stuck his head in the door. “We have a problem.”
    “Did he run?” I blurted. “Did he escape?”
    The second cop gave me a pitying look. “No, ma’am, he’s sitting on your steps. We’ve got him cuffed, nothing for you to worry about. Butch, could you come out here a second?”
    Butch left, his gun catching the light. Clutching Angus to me, I tiptoed to the living room window and pushed back the curtain (blue raw silk, very pretty). There was the burglar, still sitting on my front steps, his back to me, as Officer Butch and his partner conferred.
    Now that I wasn’t in mortal fear, I took a good look at him. Bed-heady brown hair, kind of appealing, really. Broad shoulders…it was a good thing I didn’t get into a scuffle with him. Well, into more of a scuffle, I supposed. Burly arms, from the look of the way the fabric strained against his biceps. Then again, it could just be the pose forced on him by having his hands cuffed behind his back.
    As if sensing my presence, the burglar turned toward me. I leaped back from the window, wincing. His eye was already swollen shut. Dang it. I hadn’t planned on hurting him. I hadn’t planned anything, really…just acted in the moment, I guess.
    Officer Butch came back inside.
    “Does he need some ice?” I whispered.
    “He’ll be fine, ma’am. He says he’s staying