An Elderly Woman Warned Me Not To Touch The Snow—The Next Morning, I Understood Why

Gate to living room windows. Along the wall to the kitchen. Around the back to the pantry and basement entrance. At each window, the prints clustered—someone standing still, leaning forward, cupping hands against the glass to see inside. Then moving on to the next.

Casing. That was the word. He was casing my house.

Then back to the gate. Out. Gone.

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