Most of you know that we were robbed last August. It was a terrible and beautiful experience that taught us so much about our new country and our new neighbors. For a while it was like a raw, festering wound that kept us on our toes and never quite comfortable in our own home. It was like that hole left in your mouth when you lost one one of your baby teeth. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, your tongue continues to find that tender spot and explore it despite the pain. But eventually the pain fades, and a new tooth grows in its spot, so you don't even quite remember it was ever gone.

I think the forgetting is the mind's form of defense – a preservation mechanism evolved to survive life's traumas. I don't mean the forgetting of the incident. I'm talking about the easing of emotion that allows us to cope and move on. There is no way I would have made it through the past year if I was feeling the fear, violation, and anger every day. I eventually got to the point where when someone met us for the first time and exclaimed, "Oh! You're the couple who got robbed!" I could smile and reply, "yep. That's us." In fact, I never thought about it at all unless someone else brought it up. Until a few months ago, that is.

At the end of March, we were at our neighbor's daughter's birthday party at the beach, having a fine time, when I looked up and saw him – Pepe, the man who robbed us. It was one of those ice-water-in-your-lap moments, and I instinctively reached down and grasped Chuck's hand while I struggled to maintain my smile and keep track of the current conversation. Chuck had spotted him a bare moment before I did and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

He's not supposed to be here.

As soon as the family found out Pepe robbed us, they sent him away to a six-month, in-house drug treatment facility in the mountains that very morning. He could not check himself out. He could not leave. We know that part of their motivation was to get him out of town, where the police could not reach him, but they also recognized that he was in crisis and something had to be done. Drug treatment was a very expensive undertaking for a family that has so little. They also promised that when the drug treatment was over, Pepe would not return to Mazatlan. He would make a new life somewhere else.

The family begged us not to press charges. Pepe was gone and would not be coming back. We had gotten most of our stuff back. We agreed. There have been people in my life with substance problems, and rehab really made a difference. We truly felt that treatment would be better for him than jail. We were wrong.

The day after the party, we made a point of running into Pepe's family. We asked why he was back in Mazatlan. While he was in rehab, his wife had given birth to a baby girl. He was here to work and support his young family. He had a job and he was living with his wife in another part of the city. The family had ordered him to stay away from us and stay off of our hill. I genuinely like the family, and I didn't want to make things harder for them. And Pepe looked sober and the picture of a good dad and husband at the party. Could I really stand in the way of his fresh start? We let the matter go. We should have pushed.

Over the next two months, Pepe came around our street more and more. He decided he didn't like to work. He quit his job. He left his wife and baby. He moved in with his grandmother, who is powerless to say no to him, right next door.

His behavior has continued to degenerate. He is back on the meth hard core, I think worse than before he went to rehab. His meth friends are hanging around. Events have continued to escalate. There has been way too much excitement for our little and otherwise quiet street. I have so much to tell you, but it's too much for this one post. I will finish the story over the next few nights while I am up in the wee hours, guarding our house.

The whole story:
Robbery Redux
The Saga Continues...
So Close
And Yet So Far
Ding Dong, the Meth Head's Gone