“Do you remember the man who asked for the wireless password last week,” he said quietly.
I remembered instantly, the friendly stranger from the lower floor who had smiled easily and joked about bad internet service.
“They collect routines and details,” he continued. “And tonight they chose you.”
The doorbell rang a third time, and the politeness was gone.
“If you do not open the door,” the voice announced coldly, “we will cut power to the entire unit.”
A sharp sound followed, and the lights went out.
The apartment was plunged into darkness, and my daughter began to cry from her room, her small voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Do not turn on your phone light,” my husband said urgently. “Do not let them see where you are.”
I rushed to my daughter and pulled her into my arms, covering her mouth gently as her body trembled against mine, while I listened to muffled voices outside the door, lower now, less cautious.
“There is definitely a child inside,” one voice said.
“Move faster,” another replied.
Tears stung my eyes as I whispered into the phone that I was scared, and for the first time his voice cracked when he told me that he knew.