08045889335 
Then Mrs. Gable from next door knocked on the door. She was a kind, bird-like woman who brought over zucchini bread every August. Her face was not kind today. It was pinched and pale.
“What did she say?”
“We’ve become the neighborhood watch from hell,” Laura whispered.
Mark, meanwhile, had his own habits. He was obsessed with the “Front Porch” camera. He’d watch the teenager across the street, Jeremy, who had a habit of loitering near their hedge. “Something’s off about that kid,” Mark would mutter. He compiled clips: Jeremy dropping a soda can, Jeremy looking at his phone while standing near their driveway, Jeremy once – just once – leaning over to peer at the doorbell camera itself. Mark showed Laura a montage one night. “See? He’s casing the place.”
Laura took a ladder, a screwdriver, and a small hammer to the living room camera. She pried it off the wall, dangled it by its wire, and then smashed it against the brick fireplace. The little white orb shattered into plastic shards and a tiny, blinking green circuit board. It was a violent, satisfying act.
“I’m not saying we’ll never get another one,” Laura said, sitting next to him. “But if we do, it’s one. And it points only at the door. And we turn it off when we’re home.”
