I start awake to the unhinging bark of my dog. A cross between a golden retriever and a poodle, estimated by the breeder to be no larger than twenty pounds. The twenty-five and a half pound golden doodle has no intention of letting me sleep any longer. She never barks like this, especially this late at night, or should I say: this early in the morning. My bedside alarm clock reads 1:27 am. I sleepily exit the warm safety of my bed and approach the dog’s old, blue crate. The navy paint has slowly chipped away over the two years we’ve had it, revealing a silver, metal skeleton. She launches herself out of the crate as soon as I unlatch its creaky door. She races down the stairs, evidently headed for the front door. I only wanted to let her out to give her a comforting scratch behind the ears, I did not intend to venture downstairs into the unwelcoming absence of light that engulfs each and every room. The darkness envelopes the house as if a giant blanket has been draped over the whole of the familiar building. I slowly and tiredly make my way down the stairs, the iron railing cold to the touch as I use it to guide me. I walk with light footsteps, consciously avoiding the one creaky, wooden board on the fourth step to the bottom. If that silly dog continues her barking, she’ll wake up the entire house - my sister is far from pleasant when she lacks sleep.

I finally reach the bottom of the endless staircase and locate my animal, angrily barking at the mahogany front door. My front door is tall and looks as if it were designed for a wine cellar in Napa. The design features a small window that opens from the inside with a latch. On the outside, it is “protected” by two intersecting metal bars. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach when I finally hear it. The voice sounds frustrated and unfriendly. Maybe he’s on the phone? I can only identify one hostile voice. Chills run down my spine when he knocks. He doesn’t knock with control. His knocking doesn’t follow a pattern. He just carelessly throws his fist repeatedly into my winery-style, front door.

I wonder if I should open the door, he sounds desperate. Maybe he’s lost? After a few moments of contemplation, I decide on unlocking the small square window. I open it to see two, wild, brown eyes. The only thing between my terrified eyes and his wild ones are those two metal bars. They mimic the confinement created by a prison window. The outdoor prisoner tries the door handle for what I can only guess is at least the eighth time, and shifts his focus back to me when the door refuses to open.

I struggle to activate my voice. “What do you want, man?”

“Open this goddamn door! Just let me in.” His voice is laced with boiling, unstable anger and his words are sloppily slurred.

“Yeah… I don’t think so.”

He steps away from the door and begins pacing back and forth on my porch. This gives me the opportunity to analyze his, now visible, appearance. He appears to be no older than nineteen. Something about him screams “overgrown teenager.” He wears a slightly oversized, black hoodie with the hood up, almost completely shadowing his deep brown eyes. His dark blue, ripped skinny jeans include a tacky-looking wallet chain. His white adidas shoes are almost blinding, seemingly brand new. As he nervously strides from one edge of the doorstep to the other, he lifts his cracked iPhone 8 back to his ear and continues his conversation. He angrily shouts something inaudible into his phone speaker and turns to face me again, slowly approaching the door window and the two, intersecting bars.

“My friends are on their way. Ya really wanna meet my friends? Just open this damn door! I swear. If you don’t open the door, I-I’ll find another way in!” He gets so close to the window that I can smell the alcohol in his breath.

My head pounds as I impulsively shut and lock the window. Maybe if the window is closed, he’ll just disappear. My dog’s anxious barking grows fainter, my attention turns to the back door. She stands, alert, growling at the glass door that seals the backyard entrance to my house. This door does not have the luxury of those metal bars. Just give this guy access to one of the stones lining the path to my trampoline, and the glass door serves no purpose. The glass could shatter at any given second. Hopefully he’s too out of it to notice the rocks. There he is again. He must have realized that the gates connecting the front yard to the back don’t have locks. He approaches the door and tries the handle. Obviously locked.

“Unlock the door! You’ve gotta be kidding me.” This man looks about as angry as a toddler sitting in a corner for a time-out.

“Dude, I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t get out of here,” I say, with as much assertion as I can muster up.

The dog’s growling has failed to cease throughout this unnerving encounter. I wonder why her snarling hasn’t woken the rest of the house. I can’t take it anymore. I need this guy to leave.

“Alright, I’m gonna count to ten. If you fail to remove yourself from my property by the time I reach the end, I’m calling 911.”

All I get in response is an exasperated grunt.

I slowly back away from the door and towards the spot on the kitchen counter where the home phone sits, charging. I refuse to take my eyes off of the intruder, blindly reaching for the phone. My shaky fingers hover over the two necessary digits as I prepare to make the call, eyes still glued to the strange man.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that the continuous barking has ceased.