Fourteen
 One evening, as Paul came home late, he walked up to his house and found the door slightly ajar.
Funny—he was good at locking up.
Walking warily into the house, flicking on lights, he found things strewn about. Drawers half open. Doors ajar.
Mouth agape, he walked from room to room. Someone or someones had been in here searching for—what?
Hearing a noise in the back, he ran through the house. The kitchen door was open. Paul pushed through the screen door, just in time to see a man's figure running from the radar-like array toward the side of the house.
"Hey!" Paul chased after him.
Around the side of the house, to the front, Paul ran after him.
Across the street in the shadows, a pair of automobile headlights winked on.
Paul ran across the street, closing on the stranger. He still had no idea who the man was, what he looked like.
A car door slammed, and a huge car that might have been a black government vehicle pulled out on squealing tires and drove away. Paul stopped running and waited until his breath came back. He hadn't even glimpsed the license plate.
He limped back to the house, locked the doors, and began an inventory.
Nothing stolen, as far as he could see.
Angrily, he began the long task of folding things and putting them away.
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Have Blue