There was a man in my laundry room, crouched down beside the washer. When I opened the door, he looked up at me, and I asked him what he was doing there and how he got into my apartment. He was filthy and smelled like wet rubber boots. He opened his stagnant, trap-jaw mouth and told me he was there to kill me. Ha, I said, You think you can take me? I thought about my gun in the closet. Should I get it? The gun was in one direction, and the key to the safety lock was in another. You should be more careful about locking your windows, he said, You can’t imagine how many times I’ve been in here…waiting for you. Now I was angry. Get out, I said. No, he said. This is my home.