In a movie, the heroine studies the firefly light, learn its movements, the quirks of the stranger in the house. Finding her opportunity to slip silently to the porch, she turns on a sprinkler hose, just one twist. The dripping water's a cover, misdirection. She's a ninja, a gymnast, an agent of Mossad.

She finds a rock, no, a brick. No, it's a club chosen among firewood. She barely breathes, floats on the balls of her feet. She's inside the door, invisible, trained in special ops and espionage, waiting for the moment to cartwheel in, trade the club for a tire iron, the tire iron for a machete she had the whole time. With a strike and a parry, no, a kick like a punch, she has the intruder on the ground with their hands bound and unconscious. She turns off the flashlight. Credits ro...

Please subscribe to keep reading.