But the message came through Airbnb’s platform with a verified badge next to the host’s name, and within ten minutes of posting. It was too specific, too fast.

My wife, Pilar, was still shaking. We were parked outside a gas station, sipping flat vending machine Cokes, our suitcases crammed haphazardly into the trunk.

She grabbed the phone from my hand and reread the message three times. “Do you think this is real? Like… is this some FBI kind of thing?”

I didn’t know. I’m a middle school science teacher. She’s a part-time doula and pottery instructor. We don’t deal with cops unless one of my students pulls the fire alarm.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if that really was police equipment, I might’ve just screwed something up.”

Within the