I was fourteen when I spent the night at my friend, Kayla’s, house for the first time.
Her father was quiet and barely spoke to me, but nothing seemed especially strange.
Around 2 a.m., I woke up and noticed a tiny blinking light on a shelf.
When I looked closer, I realized it was a camera pointed toward the room.
I panicked.
Without waking Kayla, I threw a blanket over it.
Less than five minutes later, her father rushed in.
“Why did you cover that?” he demanded.
I was terrified.
Then Kayla sat up and immediately started crying.
Her father took a breath and explained.
Kayla had a serious sleepwalking problem.
A few months earlier, she had wandered outside in the middle of the night and nearly reached the street before anyone noticed.
Since then, her parents had installed motion alerts and a camera facing the bedroom doorway so they would know if she got up while asleep.
I looked again.
The camera wasn’t aimed at the beds the way I had assumed.
It was positioned toward the door.
Her father apologized for frightening me and admitted he should have explained it before the sleepover.
Later that night, the alert actually went off.
Kayla stood up asleep and started walking toward the hallway.
Her dad gently guided her back to bed.
I had spent several terrifying minutes convinced I had uncovered something sinister.
Instead, I had accidentally disabled the very thing her parents were using to keep her safe.
