There were a rash of car burglaries in our neighborhood about 18 months ago. My step-dad’s work van was raided for tools, and Daniel’s car window was smashed twice. In the driveway. The guy responsible was caught thanks to my next door barefoot neighbor who chased him down the street and tackled him while his son called the police.

Fast forward nearly two years, I forgot to lock my car last night because I was going to go back out and get something. When I went out there this morning, stuff from my glove box was strewn all over the front seats. Everything had been rifled through. I searched in vain for my son’s iPod with the Dude’s voice running through my head, “You fucking know it’s been stolen.” And Walter responding, “Well, certainly that’s a possibility.”

Aside from a phone holder Daniel had given me, nothing else appears to be missing because I never keep anything of value in my car. Except for the fucking iPod that I kept forgetting to stick back in my purse to take inside. It’s my fault it’s gone, and I’m just sick about it. I have no idea how to tell my son.

Since the incidents started I have been hyper vigilant about my neighborhood. I heard something outside last night, but I didn’t get up to look for a few minutes giving the thief ample time to get away. Filed a police report this morning and the sheriff’s deputy told me that his partner had seen a burglarized vehicle down the street but had been unsuccessful at contacting the owners so far.

And so it begins again. If you need me past midnight, I’ll be sitting in the dark peering out the window with a baseball bat in my lap.