Near the Dockside is the eponymous dock. It’s right down on the Gorge with no safety rails and a green bench. It’s perfect for midnight smoking. The water is gorgeous with lights and the crisp, black air is sonically pixellated with the radio-worksounds of the shipyard adjacent.

Last night I sat there doing deep breathing exercises. Slowly in through the mouth, filling the abdomen, then lungs, then the top of my chest. Slow enough to aerate the smoke, then hold and wait for the body’s little “I’m not breathing!” panic to subside. Then out. Répétez, s’il vous plaît.

After about fifteen I walked up the dock and down the Goose back to our townhome. Walking through the Dockside gardens I heard the crunch of gravel on the path behind me. I equipped my keys and phone, and looked around as I checked the time and the competition: 0:00.

It was a guy dressed in Dexter’s killsuit. I ducked over one of the bridges leading across the artificial stream. This one lead up to the amphitheater-front of the building.

I got inside quietly, but I had to take my time — I was showing up unannounced and didn’t want to wake any ogres. Close the gate, slowly slowly, close the door, slowly slowly, close the deadbolt, slowly slowly. I turned around.

The deck door: Wide open.

Ninja-feet across the kitchen, past the robot floorcleaner, past the eager eye of the environmental control computer. No lights. Outside, Dex was standing on the path.

He walked away and I locked the SHIT out of that door, fuck being quiet: SLAM! Deadbolt goes CA-CHUNK.

Then I realized: This is Dexter we’re talking about. He’s patient. I’ve locked the door tonight, but surely there’ll be other heatwaves. I resolved then to lock the door every night for the rest of my life: Take that, fictional serial killers.

“But that’s just silly”, I thought, “the other garden bridges lead to people’s actual units. Why climb up to a balcony when you can just stroll across a bridge?”

“Hopefully,” I thought to myself, “Hopefully he’ll just kill my neighbors.”