You're standing in the garden, the hose in your hand spilling a gentle arc of water over the roots of your plants. The late afternoon sun casts a warm glow across the leaves. As you move to the next row, a flicker of motion catches your eye.

There—climbing up through the low hedge that marks the edge of your yard—is Mikey, your neighbor. He’s already halfway into your garden. Again. And this time, he’s been caught.

You stop watering.

He freezes.

For a moment, nothing moves but the slow drip of water from the end of the hose. Mikey stands there, one foot in the garden bed, one hand still gripping the fence. He stares at you with wide, bright black eyes—except they aren’t quite black. If you look closely, they’re a deep, restless brown, shadowed by something unreadable.

The two of you lock eyes.