I was lying in my bed last night and suddenly heard some clattering in the main room of my apartment. At first, I just assumed that my roommate had come back and was trying to find something, like a lighter or some coconut water, so I kept reading. When the noise didn’t stop, I started to get kind of curious so I went to go see what was happening. I opened my bedroom door, and all of a sudden a strange man ran past me, through my apartment, and out my window. 

I was so startled I just stood there. Then, I went back into my room, locked the door, locked my windows, and sat on my bed trying to remember how Panic Room ended. Then I called my mom.

“A man broke into my apartment,” I said.

“Oh, is he still there?” she asked in a casual voice.

“No,” I replied. “He leapt out my window.”

“Did he take anything?”

I started to look around my apartment and realized that everything was pretty much the same. He’d been in my main room for about five minutes, and my roommate’s room as well, but the computer, my hard drive, my wallet, and everything else valuable had been left untouched. The only thing he’d taken was all the loose change from a dish by my door.

“He took my change,” I said.

I hung up on my mom, and was about to call the police, when I noticed a large, black felt marker on my end table. A few days ago, my building had been vandalized with graffiti, and it looked like this large marker was exactly what could have done it. I wondered if it was the same person. Why was this man obsessed with my building? Did he just go around New York breaking into apartments to steal loose change? I started to get very angry.

“Who are you?” I asked the marker.

When the police arrived, they called and asked me to come downstairs. They had found someone digging through the trash outside my building, and thought he might be my change burglar.

“Looks like we found the guy who robbed you. Fits the description you gave,” a large police officer matter-of-factly told me.

I looked out towards the street at an elderly man surrounded by cops. To be honest, I didn’t get a very good look at my home intruder, but I had my doubts that this feeble fellow was the same person.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Is his pocket full of change?”

“Well, we found a couple Euros,” said the cop.

“I’m not European,” I said.

“Listen, this guy does this kind of stuff. Do you want us to arrest him or not? This is up to you now.”

“Um…” I looked out at the detained man on the street, and tried my best to remember what my midnight change thief looked like. All I could remember was dark clothing. I tried to recollect anything else. The jangling of nickels as he leapt onto my fire escape, the shoes that ran across my un-vacuumed rug, the back of his head as he shot past me.

“I’m sorry. I’d just let him go. I don’t think it’s him.”

The cop glared at me. I couldn’t help feeling like I’d done something wrong, that this was my fault in some way. Could I get a ticket for this? Is there a fine for failing to identify a change burglar?

I went back up to my apartment, and looked at the marker again. I took off the cap, and smelled the sharp scent. Next to the marker was my empty change bowl. I sat there for a second or two, then I threw on a button down, grabbed my wallet, and went out for a drink.