as day and I was out of the bedroom before I even realized I was moving, heading back downstairs.
I hurried to my desk, sat in front of my computer, and stared at the screen. It was dark and lifeless. For most people, this wouldn’t be a problem. But it was a major red flag for me. Because the first thing I always did when I set up a new computer was to disable its ability to sleep. It’s an old quirk of mine. When I’m working I often have to pause to figure out a problem—often for thirty or forty minutes straight—and it drives me crazy if I have to wait for the machine to wake up when I’m finally ready to continue. So, there was no way the computer should have been dormant like this. It should have still been running my tests from yesterday, or waiting for me to review the results, patiently filling the screen with a succession of digitized Lichtensteins. Unless—could there have been a power outage when I was lost in the tequila haze?
I hit the space bar, and the computer came back to life. That was the last thing I was hoping for, but it did actually make sense. A hiccup in the electrical supply wouldn’t have restored the computer’s ability to sleep. Only a manual reset could do that. And more alarmingly still, there were no test results for me to view, and no indication my new program was running in the background. I was lost for an explanation. But as I sat and stared at the inert Home screen, my confusion began to unravel itself into something much more straightforward. Worry.
I pulled the keyboard closer to me and checked the computer’s directory. There was no sign of my new program at all. It had completelyvanished. As had the data I’d imported. The memory stick had disappeared, too, from the port on the side of the machine. To lose the program was bad enough, but my only copy of the data as well? That would be a disaster.
Then, a moment’s reprieve. All the data wasn’t missing. I hadn’t used the files on the second memory stick, had I? But what had I done with it? My sluggish mind was blank. It took a real effort to recall details of the previous night. And out of the murk I dredged up—nothing.
That was the answer. Nothing. I hadn’t done anything with the memory stick. I’d left it on my key ring. The key ring I’d put on my desk when I checked that the tests were still running. And now there was no sign of it, either. There was just my keyboard, and the monitor. Other than those, the glass surface—and the wooden floor that was visible through it—was completely bare.
Hopes for Carolyn’s return were suddenly replaced by another, altogether more sinister explanation for the door being open when I came downstairs earlier. My stomach turned over. I looked up at the wall above my desk, neurotically checking that my Lichtenstein was still there.
Then I reached for the phone and dialed 911.
Tuesday. Mid-morning.
I N A FEW MINUTES’ TIME, THERE’D BE ARMED MEN IN MY HOUSE
.
I’d never imagined myself having to call the police. In fact, like most people, I’d never given the police much conscious thought at all. Ever since I could remember they’d just been a hypothetical, intangible presence. Sometimes unwelcome—like when a guy breaks out a joint at a college party, or when your speedometer creeps a few miles-an-hour north of the limit on the freeway—but usually reassuring. Like a safety net. Only there’s a big difference between being vaguely aware of something that’s there to catch you
if
you fall, and finding out how it feels to crash face-first into the mesh.
MAYBE ARMED MEN HAD ALREADY
been in my house that morning? If I was right, and someone had stolen my prototype, they’d have had to break in to get to my computer. And what kind of burglar breaks into a house, knowing the owner is inside, without being armed? I couldn’t believe I’d been there all along, asleep, and oblivious. It reminded me of my favorite TV show from a while back.
Deadwood
. Set at
I hurried to my desk, sat in front of my computer, and stared at the screen. It was dark and lifeless. For most people, this wouldn’t be a problem. But it was a major red flag for me. Because the first thing I always did when I set up a new computer was to disable its ability to sleep. It’s an old quirk of mine. When I’m working I often have to pause to figure out a problem—often for thirty or forty minutes straight—and it drives me crazy if I have to wait for the machine to wake up when I’m finally ready to continue. So, there was no way the computer should have been dormant like this. It should have still been running my tests from yesterday, or waiting for me to review the results, patiently filling the screen with a succession of digitized Lichtensteins. Unless—could there have been a power outage when I was lost in the tequila haze?
I hit the space bar, and the computer came back to life. That was the last thing I was hoping for, but it did actually make sense. A hiccup in the electrical supply wouldn’t have restored the computer’s ability to sleep. Only a manual reset could do that. And more alarmingly still, there were no test results for me to view, and no indication my new program was running in the background. I was lost for an explanation. But as I sat and stared at the inert Home screen, my confusion began to unravel itself into something much more straightforward. Worry.
I pulled the keyboard closer to me and checked the computer’s directory. There was no sign of my new program at all. It had completelyvanished. As had the data I’d imported. The memory stick had disappeared, too, from the port on the side of the machine. To lose the program was bad enough, but my only copy of the data as well? That would be a disaster.
Then, a moment’s reprieve. All the data wasn’t missing. I hadn’t used the files on the second memory stick, had I? But what had I done with it? My sluggish mind was blank. It took a real effort to recall details of the previous night. And out of the murk I dredged up—nothing.
That was the answer. Nothing. I hadn’t done anything with the memory stick. I’d left it on my key ring. The key ring I’d put on my desk when I checked that the tests were still running. And now there was no sign of it, either. There was just my keyboard, and the monitor. Other than those, the glass surface—and the wooden floor that was visible through it—was completely bare.
Hopes for Carolyn’s return were suddenly replaced by another, altogether more sinister explanation for the door being open when I came downstairs earlier. My stomach turned over. I looked up at the wall above my desk, neurotically checking that my Lichtenstein was still there.
Then I reached for the phone and dialed 911.
Tuesday. Mid-morning.
I N A FEW MINUTES’ TIME, THERE’D BE ARMED MEN IN MY HOUSE
.
I’d never imagined myself having to call the police. In fact, like most people, I’d never given the police much conscious thought at all. Ever since I could remember they’d just been a hypothetical, intangible presence. Sometimes unwelcome—like when a guy breaks out a joint at a college party, or when your speedometer creeps a few miles-an-hour north of the limit on the freeway—but usually reassuring. Like a safety net. Only there’s a big difference between being vaguely aware of something that’s there to catch you
if
you fall, and finding out how it feels to crash face-first into the mesh.
MAYBE ARMED MEN HAD ALREADY
been in my house that morning? If I was right, and someone had stolen my prototype, they’d have had to break in to get to my computer. And what kind of burglar breaks into a house, knowing the owner is inside, without being armed? I couldn’t believe I’d been there all along, asleep, and oblivious. It reminded me of my favorite TV show from a while back.
Deadwood
. Set at
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