Walk along the beach. Find a whistle in the sand. Blow it. Do you hear the sound? No. But somebody hears, somebody not far away. Perhaps you had better put it down. Ignoring sound advice, you pocket the whistle; perhaps you don't even realize you're doing it. A few crumbs of rust from the whistle stick to your hand. As you walk forward, you idly brush them off onto your red shirt whose color hides the tiny droplets of blood that they drew.

You arrive home. There is something unusual about one of the trees in your yard, but you can't place it. Is there a branch missing? Or an extra one? Turning the key in the knob - say, how did it get this rusty? - you discover that the door was left unlocked. You are sure you had checked it. Well, there's nothing that can be done now, either you've been robbed or you haven't been.

As you walk inside, you think you hear the toilet running, but it falls silent immediately. You're tired, you conclude; you're imagining things. You haul your bags into your bedroom. Time for bed. You can unpack in the morning. As you sit down on the bed to remove your shoes, you realize that the bedspread is off center and a little crooked. You chide yourself for your sloppiness. Ordinarily you're so careful. You continue changing and get into bed. As your tired mind drifts off to sleep, you hear (dream?) something in the kitchen.

In the morning, it isn't you who wakes up.