A man in a rented bungalow is terrorized by rowdies. Rowdies. I was never a rowdy.

(from One More Story)

Until the events of this story, the narrator had never shared his cell phone number with anybody but his wife. He hesitantly betrays this direct loveline when he shares the number with a neighbor who is also having his fence and mailbox torn up by punk kids. It’s an innocent act, sharing the number, but it does threaten his connection with Constanze. I like this simple little still waters story. Learned a new word in this story: feuilleton. It’s the the gossip/criticism part of the newspaper, according to Wikipedia.