Gets out of bed, his underpants off the floor and puts them on. In case he has to run into the public hallway or the street. Anyway, they’re briefs and he’ll be less vulnerable down there and also look stronger in them than with none on and everything hanging. A consideration. Might mean nothing. But he’s big chested, narrow waisted, in the mirror he can look powerful. Looks around, room dark, little streetlight through the shade cracks is all. Denise asleep. He has nothing. Lamp? Won’t do. Too big, won’t swing. Then what? What’s he have? VCR, TV, two of the same kind of lamps, night tables, rocking chair, Denise’s typewriter on her desk, clamp lamp above it, would collapse on impact, framed photos and prints on the wall, dresser, drawers, clothes, shoes in the closet and under the bed, maybe her boots. Couldn’t get a good grip on the leather tops. Night table, a foldup, on her side, probably lots of little things on it next to the lamp and books. Grab it by the legs and just rush the man. Or fold it up and wield it like a sledgehammer. Light enough to and in an open space he could really swing it. Goes around the bed, gets on the floor and unplugs the lamp, takes it off the table and sets it on the floor. Denise stirs. He stops. She lifts her head, turns it to him. He bends down to her ear, puts his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. “Don’t speak. I think we’re being robbed. Almost sure of it. I’ll handle it, shh.” She takes his hand away. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “Shh, shh. I’m going to use the table on him. Just in case. Don’t worry.” “Don’t,” she says; “wait; let me think.” “The kids. No time. I have to. It’ll be OK. Get up quietly and stand by the phone. Don’t pick it up. Then when I say to, call the police. Shh. No other words. No questions.” He puts the books on the floor. She gets off the other side of the bed. He brushes the things off the table into his hand. Earstuds, paperclip, pencil, spool of thread but no needle in it, feels around, no needle on the table, used tissues, face cream, sea shells, what feel like nail clippings, puts them on the bed. She’s by the phone on the VCR. For a few seconds her hands over her face. “Shh, don’t cry or let on you’re here,” he whispers; “important.” Picks up the table by its legs, takes a deep breath but not to hear, lets it out and yells “I’m coming, you bastard — Call, call now,” he whispers; “911, but quietly — You better get the hell out the way you came in and quick. Now out, get, out.” Hears movement, feet going, running. ‘There’s someone.” “Police,” she says low, “we need help. A burglar in our apartment.” Gives the address, name, phone and apartment numbers. Both kids screaming. “Stay away, you fucker,” and runs down the hall holding the table straight out in front of him. Man’s not there. “You OK? It’s Daddy,” to Olivia. Her room’s dark but she’s nodding, now crying. Man’s not in the bathroom. Goes into Eva’s room at the end of the hall. She’s standing in her crib screaming. Goes into the hall leading to the living room, feels the front door. Still locked and chained. Looks through the hall door into the kitchen. Nobody seems to be there. Walks down the hall to the living room, table in front of him. “I’m coming. I can kill you. I have a gun.” “Don’t say that,” Denise says from somewhere in back. “You came through the kitchen, get out that way.” The man runs from the living room into the dining room, then into the kitchen. Howard follows slowly. “Get out, get out.” Can’t see his face. Just a silhouette of him. Tall, thin, bald or hair cut close or skull shaved or wearing a stocking over his face. Running sound as if he has sneakers on. Tries to open the kitchen door to the fire escape. Why’d he shut it? Must have been the way he came in. It was locked when they went to bed. Must have shut it so the wind wouldn’t wake them, wind or cold. Something. Door can get stuck. He’s trying to pull it open. “Fucking-ass door. What’s with it? Fuck you then,” turning to Howard at the dining room door. “I’ll kill you first if you come for me.” “Just go and no killing,” keeping the table straight out. “Fuck you, man, you haven’t got nothing but that fucking board. Probably cardboard. Now back up. I’ve got a knife bigger than you.” Howard backs up, table still in front of him. The man holds the knife out and starts to him. “Listen, just go out through the door over there on your right and we’ll forget it.” “Yeah, why?” “Just unlock and unchain it, that’s all, and leave. You’ve time.” “Give me all your money and I’ll go. I’m not going without your money. Get your fucking wife to get it, and fast.” “There’s nobody else here.” “You crazy?” “Just my little kid; that’s who you heard.” Still coming. What to do? Backs up. “Police are on the way. I set off an alarm second I heard you. I’ve been robbed here before. I know what to do.” “Sure. And you got an alarm, you got money. Come on. Wasting my time. Fast.” Anything to throw at him? Shout and he might leap at him with the knife. Fingers the table behind him for something to throw. Maybe the bottle of wine if they didn’t put it away. Little silver wine holder; too light. Salt and pepper shakers, kid’s boardbook, place settings, baby’s spoon. Guy’s too close. If he darts either way to get away the knife could reach him. Lunge at him with the table, then drop it if it doesn’t knock the knife away and run into the living room. Throws the table at him, runs, knife slashes his shoulder, nicks his arm. In the living room he remembers the stick to hold the window up lying on the sill. Grabs it. Blood all over the place but so what? Man’s in the living room. No pain, isn’t weak, cuts don’t seem deep. Swings the stick back and forth, blood spattering the window and walls, and says “Fuck it, now I’ve had it. Get out—111 bust your goddamn head in,” and runs to the fireplace and grabs the wood Japanese statue off of it and swings both in front of him. “Bullshit, you can’t do anything. Get your money — come on.” “Help, police, someone, a burglar here, a killer,” he shouts and then knocks things off the shelves with the statue and stick to wake Gil downstairs, get him here. Runs to the floor lamp behind the armchair and turns it on. Denise is screaming in back, kids screaming. For a few seconds he can’t see anything. Man’s rubbing his eyes too. Young man. Shaved skull. No stocking. Late teens, maybe twenty. Long tight upperarms, enormous hands. Black nylon undershirt. Bright celestial design-circles in circles — in the middle of it. Big teeth and awful face. Taller than he thought. Six-one, — two. Knife out. Long enough to go through him. Like a hunting kinfe. A survival knife he thinks he’s seen it advertised as. “You dumb prick,” the man says. “Get the kids in a room, Denise, and lock the door,” he shouts behind the chair. “Get it closed. Any room. The bathroom. It has a lock, you hear? Do you hear?” “Yes,” she yells. “What’re they doing?” the man says, looking down the front hall. “Are you locked in?” Howard shouts. “Just about,” she says. Man rushes down the hall. Howard runs after him with the statue and stick. Door slams, locking sound. “Take what you want now,” Howard says to his back and runs into the kitchen, drops the statue into the sink, kicks the bottom of the door, pulls the door loose, gets on the fire escape and down the ladder and drops to the ground.