The Escape Artist

You know that feeling, the one that says something just isn't right? Yah, well, I had that while showering today. I had left my sweet three year old enjoying a bag of flour and a pile of trucks at the table. Since he occasionally helps himself to items in the hallway (who doesn't get the sporadic hankering for their bike?) and then leaves the entry door hanging open, I've started using the extra bolt when I'm really occupied. What could possibly go wrong? I'd asked him to wait to play with the knives until I was out of the shower :)

But the roar of the water couldn't hide a suspicious quiet. I called for P. Its still a rarity to spend 2 seconds alone in the bathroom - so I assumed it was just the novelty confusing me. Strangely enough, no pitter patter of little feet. A couple more shouts and the absence was obvious. I jumped out, grabbed a towel and dripped my way through the strangely empty apartment. The door was shut. Flour table? Nope. Kitchen? Nope. Playroom? Nope. And then I saw the toppled laundry basket. The one that usually sits in front of the extra door to our apartment. We never use this door, it opens into our closet. Beside the basket was his little chair (the perfect height for opening a deadbolt apparently), shoved aside by a wide open (or as far as the laundry basket would allow it) door. Shit.

As I screeched around the corner of the stairs I calculated his new height and strength versus the weight of the brownstone's front doors. No way. Those are heavy doors. Then again... And as I skidded past my 2nd floor neighbor's door I realized my traction was off because... oh yeah. I was only wearing a towel and some shampoo. Great.

One more flight brought me to the empty, (but unopened) entry way to the building. Empty, except for that ... tiny scuffle. And there, around the corner, shoved into the landlord's door jam stood Phoenix. Smiling.