I know I'm not crazy. I know this because it said so in my file, which I stole out of Director Gray's office on a drunken dare from a guy who eventually disappeared in Somalia.

Somewhat emotionally detached, the file said, and loose with the truth, yes, but in the eyes of the Agency, these were positive attributes. A red star at the top of the file corresponded to a note stuck to the inside cover. Refer to Simon? the note said. The question mark has always troubled me. They were never sure I could cut it.

So how to explain what I'm doing right now. Gardening? Searching for a lost contact lens? Seeing if there is a stranger crawling around under my shrubs waiting to sneak into my house and strangle me with a length of piano wire?

It is Tuesday morning, the San Francisco sun is shining and the fog is starting to recede back toward the ocean. It's as regular as any other morning except that on this morning rather than sitting at my kitchen table sipping a scalding cup of coffee, here I am in the back yard crawling around on my knees under the juniper trees muttering to myself like one of the local shopping cart pushing, bottle collecting loonies.

"There is no evidence here," I whisper. I am holding tightly to a brightly painted set of Matryoshka dolls, shaking them as if to make a point to my invisible audience. If I were really thinking, I would have picked up the cast iron frying pan still warm from this morning's pancakes. Cast iron is generally accepted to be a better choice of weapon than a bunch of Russian nesting dolls. I continue to crawl forward under the scrubby trees.

"There are no tracks, no shell casings, no cigarette butts or discarded coffee cups. You are simply having a paranoid attack that, most likely, a hit of caffeine will alleviate. Now get up and go back in the house." Yet from my position here in the garden, I can't help but notice that the palm tree in my perfectly landscaped back yard is situated in just such a way as to allow direct spying in through my kitchen window. Someone with skills could even figure a way into the house from here. How could I not have noticed this?

My neighbor Tom, a British gentleman who always looks slightly past his "use by" date, watches me from his own backyard, a curious expression on his face.

"Problems with the trees, Lucy?" he asks as I crawl out, pulling twigs and needles from my unwashed hair.

"Yes. Well, no, actually. I thought I heard a cat." Oh please. "It sounded like it was in trouble. Lost maybe?"

"No cats here," Tom says. He looks left and then right with an exaggerated turn of his bald head. "None that I've seen anyway."

"Well, thanks for checking. Gotta go. Left a child inside unattended. You know how that can end up."

Tom stares at me blankly. I guess not. I start to pull the debris from my hair, trying not to look too particularly crazy on this fine morning. And then I see it, off to the side of the back stairs. Five years ago, I would have known immediately the height, weight, eye color and sexual orientation of the owner of this footprint. But today, I am not sure. Is it my husband's footprint, the washing machine repairman, the woman who comes to read the meter? I haven't a clue. But I have that sinking feeling it is not supposed to be here.

I head up the stairs throwing Tom a half assed wave over my shoulder. I know he is still watching me and will continue to watch me until I disappear into the house. Sometimes I think every one knows and that I should hang a neon sign out of my bedroom window that says "Yes, you are all right. Things are not as they appear to be."

I have left Theo for one minute too long. He is now covered in applesauce and trying with great enthusiasm to bite the cat's tail. The cat is howling to be let go. Theo is howling in delight. And I swear that not ten minutes ago I heard someone crawling around under my house. But I am not crazy. My file said as much. Tomorrow, however, everything might change.