He had a rifle with a wide barrel. It shot rocks, big ones. One hit the door and splintered it. He was after those boxes in the yard. They were strapped up for shipping, taped and sealed, either coming or going. In the boxes were books, if I was sending them. If they had just arrived, then maybe boots or andirons. He was just a kid, but mean and foul-mouthed. His hair was black. He resembled my side of the family, but then so do a lot of people. The rocks were a good idea. I had no intention of opening what was left of the door. Then the mood shifted, there was a sound— it was either sirens or a woman screaming. The sirens were just a fire truck, nothing to do with us. The woman screaming, though— that might have been me.