Bonnie, Mateo, a baby girl and I are in an old living room. Mateo is playing rough and I tell him to get down. I'm trying to coax the baby girl to my lap. Bonnie says, "How come there are always killer dogs around?" I say, "There aren't any around here. Oh maybe up the street," and then I laugh because I was thinking of South H. Street, not A. Street. Three big guys and a snarling dog come to the door and walk right in and stand inside the door. I pick up the baby girl and say to them, "What do you want?" They hem and haw and say, "Do you have any records?" (musical ones). I say, "No, I don't, none to give anyway." They smirk and leave. I get up and go to the door, carrying the baby. It's dark and cloudy out there and ominous. Snarling dogs are up and down the street. Snarling squirrels try to bite at me through the old, nasty screen door. Those men are lounging on my lawn, waiting. I say, "I'm not afraid. I know what to do." I shut the door and lock it and look hurriedly for other doors to lock. I see a long closed-in hall (tunnel like) and refuse to walk through it, too scary. I go upstairs and I see an unlocked door and hear them opening it. I tiptoe up the attic stairs, stepping over clothes and games. I hear them tiptoeing behind me. I am scared. I see a pad and crawl under it and under a second layer and I curl up, waiting and hoping they don't find me. They paw around the pad but don't unearth the second layer. They are standing very close to me. I can hardly breathe.