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Living on a street like this in a fast-deteriorating part of a declining city was less difficult than those not acquainted with the neighborhood would think, but it was more disturbing.  Sheila's house had been broken into twice, but nothing had been stolen.  The first time, the man left when she screamed, and she thought maybe he was a squatter rather than a burglar.  The second time, she came downstairs, baseball bat in hand, to find the burglar passed out in a puddle of vomit on her kitchen floor.  Sheila made coffee, working around the man's snoring form, and sat, watching him, baseball bat across her robed lap, until he woke.  He cleaned up his mess, had two cups of coffee, and left before dawn.