It’s Friday night. 1:20 a.m. I should be sleeping.

It was a late night at work, but usually, by now, I’d be sleeping.

However, I’m obsessed with looking out my dining room window at the manic activity in the basement of the house next door. There’s a blanket over the window, but the top part sags down so I can see in through a slit about 5 inches deep.

They are doing something. What, I can’t tell for sure. There’s lots of heated discussion and I think the stove is right where they are congregating and urgently moving about.

I could have sworn during my last 30 second commercial break from Grey’s Anatomy that a woman was measuring something in a syringe. But I only saw a flash. And I’m beating myself up because I was not planted at the window.

Every time a car drives down the street, I’m inspecting it. Just now, a squad car drove by. Nice, I guess. But it still doesn’t quell my paranoia.

Tonight, Ed was certain he saw the mother of a little girl who lived in that house for a little while driving this way on our street. He said he could see the bags under her eyes from his car to hers. Those are some pretty hefty bags. Probably reserved for the most strung-out among us. Not surprising. This is the same woman whose child used to come to our house to play. She’s 6. She knocked on our door at 1 p.m. one day this fall.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” I asked.

“I didn’t go today.”

“Why not?”

“Because I tried and tried and tried, but I couldn’t wake my mommy up.”

“Is she awake now?”

“Yeah, she’s awake.”

Then her mother called her home.