8 pm.

I’m walking around the neighborhood, talking on my phone.

The conversation is fraught. I’m squeezing my key ring nervously. I’m wringing my hands.

Suddenly, a terrible sound shatters the suburban quiet. It’s as if a thousand angry cicadas broke out in a desperate screech.

I walk faster and faster, trying to escape from the sound but it follows me, getting stronger and stronger.

People stare at me from their porches. Passersby eye me curiously. “What’s happening?” yells my interlocutor on the phone. “What’s that noise?”

I break into a jog but the sound is faster. It surrounds me. There’s no escape.

Then suddenly I remember that on the previous day my husband put an alarm siren on my key ring to promote my personal safety.