My pulse spiked in a way that’s not healthy at my age. I stood, my joints popping like dry kindling, and moved to the glass. The street was quiet. There were no signs of danger except the rhythmic pulsing of the flashlight.
The next morning, the house was a picture of suburban order. Sarah watered the petunias; David left in a crisp, pressed shirt; Leo slung his backpack over his shoulder and climbed into the car without a word.
What did it mean?
Three short. Three long. Three short. Morse code. S.O.S.
I figured the boy had just been messing around.
But it happened again the next night. And the night after.
Then, it started to look like a bad prank.
On the fourth night, I reached for my lamp and flicked the switch once: a single, sharp shutter-click of light. The window across the street went dark instantly.
Two days later, I intercepted Leo at the mailboxes.
I figured the boy had just been messing around.
“Son, I don’t know what kind of jokes you think you’re pulling, but that signal is serious. It can save lives. Don’t use it for nothing.”
Leo didn’t look embarrassed. His eyes had an old, weary stability to them.
