The Man Who Entered Our Bedroom at 1:13 Every Night

down his nose. Polo shirt tucked into khakis like he’d come from a late appointment at a tax office. Blue gloves on his hands. A small steel tray balanced across his black case.

And in the tray were gauze pads, two capped syringes, a bottle of clear liquid, and a narrow drainage tube stained dark red at one end.

My wife, Karen, looked at me with the continue reading …