The knock echoed through the quiet house — three firm raps against the peeling wood of the front door.
Inside, Harold Jenkins, 78, sat in his recliner with a cup of lukewarm tea and a crossword half-finished in his lap. His hearing wasn’t what it used to be, but he still heard the knock loud and clear.
He shuffled to the door, pulling it open slowly.
Two uniformed officers stood outside — Officer Ramirez, young and alert, and his older partner, Officer Dwyer, who had the look of someone who’d seen too much and still wasn’t impressed.
“Can I help you?” Harold asked, blinking behind thick glasses.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Ramirez said politely, “we’re responding to a report linked to your address.”
Harold raised an eyebrow. “Report? What kind of report?”
Dwyer flipped open a notepad. “Internet interference. Some sort of modem signal messing with a nearby communications tower.”
Harold stared. “You’re telling me my modem called in a crime?”
Ramirez offered a sheepish grin. “We don’t make the rules, sir. We just follow the digital trail.”
Harold stepped back, gesturing inside. “Well, come on in then. If it’s hiding behind my record player, I’m sure you’ll catch it.”
The house smelled like dust and cinnamon. Photos of grandkids lined the hallway. Ramirez looked around carefully, while Dwyer headed straight to a cluttered desk in the corner of the living room.
“There it is,” Dwyer said, spotting a blinking router with duct tape holding one side together.
“Looks like it’s from 2005,” Ramirez muttered.
“2003,” Harold corrected proudly. “Still works. Mostly.”
Dwyer crouched beside it, checking the back. “Someone’s rerouted a signal through here. Either that, or your router’s become sentient.”
Harold chuckled. “If it has, I hope it’s better at crosswords than I am.”
After a few minutes of checking connections and making a call to dispatch, Ramirez stood up. “Looks like it wasn’t you after all. Someone piggybacked on your network.”
“Well,” Harold said, crossing his arms, “tell them they owe me a new modem. And maybe some tea.”
Dwyer nodded. “Sorry for the trouble, sir. Have a good afternoon.”
Harold watched them leave, then closed the door slowly.
He shuffled back to his recliner, sat down… and reached beneath the cushion.
Pulling out a blinking, custom-made modem unlike anything on the market, he smirked.
“Still got it.”
