The door breathes open just a few inches. But it is just enough space for him to squeeze through.

Slowly, he crawls, close to the floor, his icy breath freezing the ceramic tiles. Fearfully, he glances up as he nears the stove in the kitchen. Luckily, it has been off a few hours. He continues, moving into the black living room, pausing as he feels his way by the long- extinguished fireplace.

Quietly, he moves; his motions are swift and light. His presence seems to reach even the deepest corners of the little room. Every object in his path waits anxiously for the stroke of his chilled fingers, his touch makes them feel alive.

Still, by force, he is pushed on. His steps carry him above the soft white carpet until he reaches the stairwell. He knows where he wants to go, but in haste, his body brushes against the curtains. The curtains respond with a small frenzy of movement. But they aren't strangers to this intruder's touch. He barely notices this interruption of the curtains.

He is tired now, and he realizes that his strength is weakening with the ascension of each step of the staircase. From the ninth step, he can see the reflection of the night-light on the wall outside the little girl's room. With relief, he pushes himself up the final steps and waits, contemplating his next move.

Seconds later, as I lie in my bed, I can feel him. He is in my room now, tickling my bare toes. I quickly pull them under the protection of my covers. I know that I should get out of bed and do something about my intruder, but my body is limp. I am too tired. Besides, he has sneaked into my room before and I have survived. Suddenly, from the next room, I hear my sister scream into the dead night air, "Mom!!! The wind blew in through the doggy door again, and I'm COLD!!!" c