Three shrill whistles blast from the space above my head and it feels as if my body is raised inches above the chair without my conscious awareness. I can hear loud breathing. My heart is pounding and my pulse is racing. What on earth was that?
I had turned off the upstairs lights when I came downstairs during the early predawn hours. I am in my office, alone, ready to go to work. The bookshelves lined with books fill the entire wall and extend well above my head. The shoji screen and the window are closed, blocking me from the building next door and letting in mere tendrils of light from the walkway. The whir of the computer is the only sound in the silent night.
Dressed in my comfy sweat clothes and slippers I sit with my back to the room, my fingers on the keyboard. There is a pen and paper to my right in case I need to jot notes as I work. The old-fashioned, land-line telephone is on my left, waitng, but not anticipating, that it will be used. I am alone with my thoughts.
I mentally take inventory to make sure I am okay. Scanning my body from the top of my head to my toes I don't feel the trickle of blood or the pain of a wound. It appears to be nothing more than a moment of fright as the battery in the smoke detector announced that it needs to be replaced.
I look up and notice that there is no light on the smoke detector. It is neither green nor red. It is just blank.
I settle back into my chair, feeling my body relax as I lean against the cushions. A quick glance shows me the books, the phone, the pen and paper are waiting just where I left them.
I hear a key in the lock. The upstairs door opens. Just as I'm trying to decide if I should run or scream my husband's voice calls to me.
"Karen?"
"I'm here" I call as I stand to walk through the darkness to the stairs and find out why he has come back into the house instead of driving to work.
Before I can take my first step I hear his voice again.
"The battery is dead in my car."
I wonder if it was killed by the whistles.
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