Don Alder was used to late night visitors, even ones that appeared out of thin air and failed to use the doorbell. It came with the job and as he'd reminded himself many times, he had volunteered.
When a string of curses, all carrying a distinct note of panic, rang through his house from the direction of his entryway, Don's first reaction was to try and find his glasses. Fumbling with some cursing of his own he fell from the bed, still half-tangled in the covers, and his fingers closed over the cold rims and pulled them from the dresser. A book came with them and landed on his knee. He swore and heard the muffled groan of his wife from the other side of the bed. Gingerly, he stood and pulled the glasses on over the bridge of his nose and limped over towards the door, snagging a robe off the back of a chair on the way.