Our fortress. I hired a contractor to rip the smart-home system out entirely and replaced the gate keypad with a heavy old-fashioned padlock and a forged iron key.

I wanted to feel the physical weight of my own security in my pocket.

Life settled into a strange, quiet rhythm. The holidays came and went without a single phone call. The silence was deafening, but it was a peaceful kind of deafening.

Then, in late February, the frost broke.

I was in the study reviewing quarterly tax documents when I heard the crunch of tires on the frozen gravel. It wasn’t the smooth purr of an Audi. It sounded like a lawnmower struggling to turn over — a rattling, clanking engine that sputtered and died right in front of the iron gate.

I went to the window and pulled back the curtain.