I stretch, pulling my arms behind my head and dropping my head to my knees, as I step from my bed. It’s the first thing I do every morning. Have for years. Makes me feel ready for the day. My days are organized, routine. I can already sense something is off this morning. As I walk into the living room, I can see why.

Three objects are on my dining room table: a glass bottle of milk, gone warm; a copy of the Bible, and a bicycle tire. Only one tire, with no other hints as to where the rest of the bike must be. Hmm. I must have done it again last night …

With a sigh, I grab the keys I keep in the back drawer of the fridge. Who would look for them there, right? Smart, I know. They lead to the basement, and that’s the door I unlock next, eyeing the items in the kitchen with suspicion, as if they could come alive at any moment. Momentos are like that, I find. They hold the essence of people.

As soon as the door to the basement opens, I hear scrambling, and know I was up to no good.

“Murray, Murray, Murray,” I whisper, shaking my head to myself as I go down the steps.

The three men before me are silent, their mouths bound in duct tape. One wears a white shirt and black pants: he’d be responsible for the bike tire. I’d have to find the rest of the bike later. One has on a red cap and overalls: he must have been delivering the milk. The final guy wears a cross. Self explanatory.

I almost feel guilt, but then I don’t. These people knocked, and they were welcomed in to a place they shouldn’t be. Now, they might learn their lesson.