“They’re in public view!”
The Hearthstone system arrived in a sleek, white box that weighed almost nothing. When Laura first held it, she was struck by the irony: a device capable of watching everything weighed less than a paperback novel. She’d ordered it after the break-in on Maple Street, two blocks over. The news showed a kicked-in door, a family’s heirlooms scattered like fallen leaves. Her husband, Mark, was less concerned, but Laura couldn’t shake the feeling that their quiet cul-de-sac was just a softer target waiting to be hit.
“Laura,” she said, “is your camera pointed at my backyard?”
Mark nodded. “I saw Mrs. Gable today. I apologized.”
The next morning, Laura deleted the entire cloud archive. She factory-reset the doorbell camera, unplugged the floodlight, and took down the nursery orb. She left the one in the living room, but only because it was already wired into the wall and she hadn’t found the stud finder yet.
Mark, meanwhile, had his own habits. He was obsessed with the “Front Porch” camera. He’d watch the teenager across the street, Jeremy, who had a habit of loitering near their hedge. “Something’s off about that kid,” Mark would mutter. He compiled clips: Jeremy dropping a soda can, Jeremy looking at his phone while standing near their driveway, Jeremy once – just once – leaning over to peer at the doorbell camera itself. Mark showed Laura a montage one night. “See? He’s casing the place.”
They’d watch the mailman from work. They saw the neighbor’s golden retriever escape and retrieve him before Mrs. Gable even noticed he was gone. They caught the raccoon that had been tipping over their compost bin. Laura felt a deep, primal satisfaction in it. Seeing was knowing. Knowing was controlling.
“That’s not the point, Mark,” Laura said, exhausted. “We’re filming them. Without asking.”