The Intruder

“Lemme out! Lemme out! Let. Me. OUT!!!” 

My 6-year-old was shrieking as she madly fumbled with her seatbelt in a desperate attempt to flee the vehicle.

She, my husband, mother and I, had just returned to our car, parked on a small town street. It was late - past 10pm - and the sounds of the post-symphony gathering we had just departed, covered the damp grass like a blanket.

As my husband helped my daughter into her booster seat, my mother spotted something scuttling up one of the black sweaters I had elegantly draped over the front passenger seat headrest (in case of a late July flash-freeze).

Because the flickering streetlight on the corner provided a less than satisfying glow, the only opportunities to see inside of the car, were during the brief moments when the doors were ajar.

“There,” my mother urged, “A tail.”