Scooby Doo, where are you?

Our spare house key mysteriously appeared in the lock of our back door this morning. Kid-driven hyjinx? That's what I'm thinking, although both big kids denied it and Egan's up vacationing in Waverly. This mystery has my brow furrowed and my brain gears turning.

Did I go wandering about locking and unlocking doors with our spare key in a Zoloft-induced sleep walk? Did someone find it on the sidewalk and responsibly put it where it obviously belongs with our last name and address on it? What if they made a copy first? Or are now squatting in my basement! Before we left this morning I went down and surveyed the creepy, empty, squatterless basement. No evidence of unwanted visitors ... with the exception of spider web crowded corners and one of those Million Legged bugs dead at the foot of the stairs.

"What if we have a burglar?" Gil asked on the way to the Y. As if having a burglar is like having a bat in the attic. Or an overloaded lint trap in the dryer.