The intercom watches him hop down from the fence. The little speaker above the keypad, nine hands in all. There are many combinations but tonight is the only one where this occurs. The figure crouches when he lands and does not rise at first. He is making sure he is alone. He thinks of the crowbar that protrudes from his bag and pulls it out.
The intercom takes note of this, thinks only of its door and how no number of strikes will come out to the correct combination. It watches as the figure passes it and goes down two more doors to the one occasionally left unlocked. There, the figure contemplates how best to break the lock. The intercom of that door, a quiet neighbor, does not watch or contemplate at all.
Despite its function the intercom is not an attentive listener. It does not know why the figure pauses at intervals, and is only marginally aware when the figure breaks the lock with just two crude strikes. For a while, then, it sees stillness. No animals move in the woods beyond the fence, no cars pass, the power lines do not even sway slightly in the breeze.
The figure emerges, having filled his empty expectations. He adjusts the added weight in his bag and scales the fence again, leaving the door cracked behind him. The intercom is an eye and a mouth and a puzzle all at once; it cannot find reason to leave the door open to anyone that will come thereafter.
