Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

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I woke with a start, muscles tense, my eyes darting around the darkened, familiar room. There was no sound, nothing amiss, no obvious cause for alarm. I was alone, in bed, in my apartment-as usual.

I pushed back the covers and swung my feet to the floor, wincing slightly as the cold hit my body. It was early fall, not even foliage season, but the nights were already yielding to occasional temperature drops, warning shots from an approaching winter.

I pulled on my pants and a flannel shirt and went into the living room, awash in the colorless half-light from the street lamps below. It was a large room, book-lined, indifferently decorated, with a few pieces of comfortable furniture that would have been Salvation Army-bound a long time ago in a conventional home, but which my bachelor’s habits had retained for decades, icons to their owner’s flair for fashion.

I settled into a patched leather armchair by the dimly glowing bow window, wondering what had woken me up. It hadn’t been a dream; my pager hadn’t gone off, nor the phone. I cupped my chin in my hand and stared down at the vacant street.

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