I get a phone call at 3 AM on Saturday, and the first thing I think is that it must be something horrible—or a wrong number. No one calls with good news or to say hi at 3 AM, so I’m really hoping for a wrong number when I pick up the phone.
“Mr. Forbeck?” Ouch. No wrong number here.
“This is the Beloit Police Department.” Oh, dear.
I’m home. My kids are home. Has someone I know died, or do I have to go bail someone out?
“The dome light in your car is on. We wouldn’t want your battery to run down.”
I pull back the curtain and peer out the window. Sure enough, there’s a squad car sitting behind my car, in which the dome light is on. (I think one of the quads turned it on while messing around in the car on Friday morning, and I never saw it.)
“Um, thanks. I’ll be right down to turn it off.”
By the time I get outside, the cops are gone, disappeared into the night without sticking around for my personal thanks, just like the heroes they are. But my battery—and by extension, my upcoming morning—is saved.