From the Editor’s Desk: One (Premium)

When we were first married, Stephanie and I lived on the second floor of a ramshackle house in Canton, Massachusetts, next to Dedham, where I grew up. Like most young, newly married couples of that time, we didn't have any money and this house was what we could afford. It was falling apart, too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and its owner had built his own cellar by literally digging a hole under the building.

We were only there for three years--we then moved to the Phoenix, Arizona area so I could go back to school--but in that third year, our landlord inexplicably started fixing up the place. And as part of the renovations, he built a deck with stairs off our bedroom because he was required to do so by law: Before then, we only had a single way in and out of the apartment.

Late one night while watching TV or reading in bed--I can't recall--there was a loud noise outside what used to a window but was now a sliding door leading out to that deck. We both jerked upright and were shocked to see the shadowy profile of a man run up onto the deck in the dark, perform what looked like a barrel roll, and then stand upright and bolt back down the stairs. "Call the police!" I yelled to Steph, as I struggled to climb over her from the far side of the bed, which was against a wall.

She had thrown the covers over her head. Her response at this moment of fear was to emulate a pill bug and roll up into a ball.

Bewildered by this response, I grabbed the phone and called the police myself. I explained what had happened, and the person on the end of the line told me they'd said someone over. Then I hung up the phone ... and it rang immediately. I figured it must be the police.

"Paul!" our neighbor Eric, who lived downstairs with his girlfriend, yelled into my ear. "I'm so sorry, our cat got outside and went up your stairs and I had to run up there and get him back." Cue the hilarity.

Canton was a small suburban town, the type of place where nothing bad ever happened. Except that something bad had happened--a few years earlier, a 14-year-old boy had killed a classmate in a highly unusual incident in those pre-school shooting years--and this place was still on edge. Closer to home, the day Eric had barrel-rolled across our deck had already gone south hours earlier: Our car had been stolen in Boston that night, and as I had explained to the police when I called about the deck intruder, the thieves had our address in the car documentation in its glove box. I figured they had arrived to rob us further. In fact, I had been worried about it all night.

What Eric and I met with outside the house, together, both of us only half dressed, was what looked like the entire Canton police department, with blue and red lights spinning everywhere and spotlights illuminating the trees around the house. It was one of those unforgettable moments, and while I've not talked to Eric in years, I know it was as unforgettable for him as it was for...