Marco laughed, then didn’t. He called them. Footsteps approached; the peephole darkened. His uncle’s voice arrived like a hotel clerk’s: “We’re resting. Come later”. Marco stared at the oak, dumbfounded, the suitcase handle biting his palm. “Open the door,” he said. “You were cat-sitting, not commandeering the living room.”
Surprisingly, the locks remained. The porch light brightened as if spotlighting a suspect. His aunt appeared at the dining room window, index finger raised. “Inside voice, dear,” she mouthed. “Neighbors.” Marco stepped back, his pulse climbing. He had paid for every tile, hinge, and hinge-squeak. Tonight, he apparently owned only the driveway.