Every five minutes or so, a police car drove by telling us not to go out through its bullhorn. I said to Amelia, “I’m dying to know what’s out there.” She said, “That’s why they’re doing this, don’t you think?” “It looks like it’s a beautiful day outside. I don’t see any evil lurking out there. Everything’s in bloom, blue skies, lovely, white clouds,” I said. “That’s when they attack,” she said. “Who?” I said. “How the hell should I know?” she said. “Some kind of phantoms, known only to the police, seen only by the police.” “Well, that’s ridiculous. Why should I believe them? Now, if they’d tell us that there was a mountain lion loose in the neighborhood, that would be something I could understand and respect,” I said. “I’m going to walk to town.” Amelia didn’t try to stop me. “I’ll expect you home by dinner” was all she said. Every time I heard a police car coming, I hid behind a tree or a bush. No one else was out driving or walking or working in their yards. It made me sad to think I lived in a town with a bunch of cowards. The birds were singing, though, and this got me to whistling a happy tune. The ducking and hiding got to be a game I didn’t mind. I assumed I would be punished if caught, but the police weren’t monsters. They weren’t going to cut off my little finger or anything like that. They weren’t going to blind me. They were just afraid of things I couldn’t see. I was crossing the bridge over the little creek when I heard another squad car coming. There was no place to hide, so I instinctively jumped over the rail into the water. The water’s not very deep, and I twisted my ankle on some rocks. I crouched in the cold water until the car had passed. My ankle hurt like hell. I curled up on the bank of the creek under the bridge and felt like crying. I could hear another squad car coming, blaring its fearful message. I was afraid of what I might do next. I tried to wash the mud from my face. I dragged myself from under the bridge and looked up and down the road. I pulled myself up the embankment, trying not to think about the shooting pain. Suddenly the street looked like a place where anything might happen, and I had the power to make it happen. I started to panic, but I didn’t know which way to run. I felt like an escaped prisoner with no memory of home and only a murderous instinct to survive. They were closing in on me. I could hear the dogs. I dove under a spirea bush in somebody’s front lawn. “It’s all clear now. You can come out,” the car said. A few moments later, the owner of the house opened his front door to let his dog out. The dog came straight over to me and started sniffing. The owner walked over and looked at me. “What the hell are you doing there?” he said. “The phantom bit me on the ankle,” I said. “It’s nothing. I’ll be all right.” “What’d it look like?” he said. “That’s the thing about a phantom; you can’t see it. It doesn’t look like anything. You’re walking along. It’s a beautiful day, then, bam! it’s got you,” I said. “You didn’t listen to the police, did you?” he said. “How do you know it hasn’t already got them?” I said. He stared at me. “You’re on my property, you know?” he said. “I’ll be leaving,” I said. “Beautiful day,” he said. “You couldn’t ask for a better one,” I said.