THE ENCHILADA CASSEROLE RESTED on the counter untouched when we went downstairs, evidence that Dad was out of sorts. He sat at the table reading over the documentation for the new alarm system.
"Hey Dad, want me to get you a plate?" I asked.
"That would be great," he said without looking our way.
He walked over to the new panel beside our front door and pressed a couple buttons. A British female voice indicated that our doors and windows were secure. I panicked.
"Uh, Dad. I thought they were coming back tomorrow to wire the windows. You know I like to sleep with the window cracked."
He punched in a set of numbers and the woman's voice responded again, stating that the system was disarmed. Dad smiled with satisfaction, glancing my way.
"They're scheduled for tomorrow, but don't worry. The upstairs windows aren't wired. Besides, we won't alarm the windows most of the time."