It was a cool October night in 1997. A light breeze sent leaves tumbling down the street, the towering trees of various shades of brown and red forming a tunnel swaying gently in the wind. Houses formed a single line on either side of the street, but only one possessed a soft yellow glow against the night sky. A solitary porch light illuminated a scruffy brown mat with the word "Welcome" stitched in a fine cursive font. A sturdy door made of old red oak, adorned with a polished gold deadbolt and a curved handle, guarded entry into the simple grey-bricked home of Joseph and Sharon Timmins.
Sharon was in the kitchen, and the air was thick with smoke and peppery spice as she cooked on the stovetop. The kitchen was her sanctuary, a place of pristine order and comfort. The white countertops gleamed beneath the mahogany cabinetry. Sharon herself was always well-kept, with long brown hair worn down, nails recently manicured and painted light pink to complement her skin. She wore a white and peach plaid dress with white pointed high heels to match. Naïve and innocent, Sharon had the purest of hearts.
A pale white plastic phone vibrated on the wall of the kitchen, ringing violently and demanding attention. Sharon walked over to answer. "Hello, Timmins residence," she said. "Oh, hi Kathy," Sharon added excitedly.
Kathy was Sharon's neighbor across the street. They often attended church together, talking and sharing gossip about the neighborhood.
"Did Joe borrow our wheelbarrow this weekend?" asked Kathy.
The spiraling phone cord stretched as Sharon walked to the window. She looked outside and saw Kathy's red wheelbarrow sitting in the yard, well taken care of and freshly painted. The sharp white lettering on the side read "Big Dumper." The wheelbarrow was filled with a fresh mound of dirt; propped up against it was an old wood-handled shovel. The wheelbarrow sat next to Joe's vegetable garden, not even a foot away.
"Yes," responded Sharon, "it looks like Joe was using it for the garden, but it's still sitting there. That man doesn't finish anything."
"That's okay, Sharon," answered Kathy. "I just wanted to make sure because our stuff keeps disappearing on us lately, and I'd be darned if someone wasn't stealing from us."
Sharon went to plug in her mixer, planning to make Joe's favorite cherry pie. "Well, we have it," said Sharon, "but it looks like it might rain, so I'll have Joe bring it back tomorrow."
As soon as Sharon spoke her last word, she flipped the switch to her mixer, and without warning, the lights turned off.
"Hello, hello," Sharon attempted to call out to Kathy, but the phone was dead. "Oh, fiddle sticks, fiddle sticks, fiddle sticks!" she said in frustration.
Sharon wasn't one for swearing. She typically resorted to using innocent words to replace vulgar speech.
"The power must be out," she cried.
Sharon walked out of the kitchen and into the living room to let Joe know the lights were off. Joe was a massive man with biceps that filled his sleeves. He worked road construction and often spent 14 hours a day pouring concrete along with other various tasks. He was always tired and on most nights would fall asleep sitting in his cushy brown chair. Joe's head tilted slightly to the left, his arms rested on the armrests. The chair was positioned directly in front of the large tube TV. The cool gleam of the TV reflected off Joe's face as the weather broadcast spoke of colder temperatures and potential rain coming during the night.
