I like summer in Canada because you can wear shorts everywhere, but I don’t like the bugs that come with it. At home, the only downside is that the kids are around all day, which means there is always constant noise. That can be a little bothersome while I’m trying to work. At the same time, on the positive side is I can sleep in a bit as we don’t have to get the kids ready to school.

Every summer, my wife and I decide that we should go hiking every weekend, but it usually doesn’t happen because there is so much planning involved. This time, however, we found a way around that. One of our neighbours, who is also from India, is really into hiking and trekking. So, all we had to do was join them! They did all the planning, and we simply showed up for the hikes. As a result, we managed to go hiking almost every weekend and on some weekends, we even went twice.

I also try to go jogging every summer atleast once a week, and I was able to keep that up this time as well. However, completing a sub-30-minute 5K is still a dream I’m chasing. Hopefully, I’ll achieve it one day.

But here’s my problem: Blink cameras detect motion and then record the next few seconds after sensing any motion. They don’t offer continuous recording. I understand that these cameras are battery-powered, so constant recording would quickly drain the battery. That makes sense.

But I’m willing to use a power cable instead of batteries. Even then, Blink doesn’t allow continuous recording.

I don’t understand why.

The camera is constantly monitoring the view through its lens to detect motion. If it is already processing what the camera sees, why can’t it simply record the video continuously? Why can’t it perform this seemingly simple task?

Come on, Blink. You can be better than this.

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of violence, murder, blood, and disturbing crime scenes. Reader discretion is advised.

As we responded to the 911 call, we entered the caller’s neighbourhood. This area was nothing new to us. It was one of the city’s most notorious crime hotspots. We were regularly called there for everything imaginable - drug offences, assaults, sexual assaults, domestic disturbances - you name it.

My partner slowed the patrol car as we approached 17 Chesterton Lane. Standing outside the house was a nervous woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, clutching her phone tightly in her hand.

We stepped out of the vehicle and approached her, remaining aware of our surroundings.

“Hello, ma’am. Did you call us?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, moving closer to us. “I called 911. My friend isn’t answering her phone.”

I glanced at my partner, slightly confused, but he seemed more focused on scanning the area than listening to the conversation.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t understand. Could you be a little more specific?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. My name is Carie,” she said anxiously. “My friend, Laura who lives here, called me yesterday and asked me to pick her up this morning so we could go to work together. I’ve been calling her, but she isn’t answering. I can hear her phone ringing inside the house, and Laura is a very light sleeper. I’ve been ringing the doorbell and knocking for more than thirty minutes. I’m afraid something might have happened to her.”

Her voice trembled with panic.

I pulled my partner aside to discuss our next steps. As I looked at the neighbourhood, something about it felt familiar.

“Have we been here before?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he replied immediately. “A couple of weeks ago. Remember the missing teenager?”

Then I remembered.

“Oh, yeah. I remember now.”

It had been a difficult case. A single mother had called us in tears, reporting that her teenage son had disappeared. We had searched for him but found nothing that could lead us to his whereabouts. Unfortunately, many missing-teenager cases in this area were connected to drugs. Often, the teenagers would disappear for a few days and eventually return once they had sobered up.

However, she had been devastated, repeatedly insisting that her son would never use drugs. Poor woman. Reality can be difficult to accept when it destroys everything you believe about someone you love.

While we discussed the situation, a paramedic unit and another police cruiser arrived.

We knocked on the front door and rang the bell again.

There was no response.

I walked around the side of the house, searching for a possible way to enter while my partner briefed the officers who had just arrived. Every window was covered with blinds, making it impossible to see inside.

Given the circumstances, we had reasonable grounds to believe that someone inside the house could be injured or in immediate danger and in need of emergency assistance.

We decided to make entry.

The house was old, and the front door looked worn and fragile.

“Police!” one of the officers shouted.

With a powerful kick, he forced the door open.

We immediately entered the house.

The interior was in terrible condition. The rooms were cluttered and neglected, with belongings scattered everywhere.

“Police!” I shouted. “Is anyone home?”

I moved cautiously farther inside. Ahead of me was a staircase leading down to the basement. I was about to make my way downstairs when a voice suddenly echoed from the kitchen.

“Fuck! We’ve got a body! Possible homicide!”

I immediately turned toward the kitchen.

The officer who had discovered the body looked shocked. His hand moved toward his weapon, and the rest of us immediately became alert.

I cautiously approached the kitchen.

From a distance, I could see blood on the floor.

At first, all I could see was the victim’s head. Her hair was soaked in blood. I moved around the kitchen counter to get a better view.

What I saw was horrifying.

The woman lay motionless in a pool of blood, her clothing torn and badly damaged. Several stab wounds were visible across her body. It was clear that a kitchen knife had been used in the attack. The blade had been driven deep into her genital area and left there, with only the handle protruding.

For a moment, I simply stood there, struggling to comprehend the brutality of what had happened.

I looked toward the knife block on the kitchen counter. Two knives were missing.

We knew where one of them was.

But where was the other?

I signalled toward the knife block with my weapon. My partner noticed immediately and silently acknowledged what I was thinking.

The missing knife could still be somewhere inside the house.

Since the front door had appeared to be secured when we arrived, we believed that the suspect might still be inside.

We began searching the house, clearing one room at a time.

The ground floor was eventually secured.

Only the basement remained.

One officer remained near the main entrance to secure the scene and request additional backup and forensic investigators.

The three of us prepared to search the basement.

I led the way.

We descended slowly, one step at a time, our weapons ready. I lowered my body slightly as I reached the bottom of the stairs, trying to get a better view of the dark space ahead.

The basement was disturbing.

The air smelled foul, and the room was filled with objects that immediately caught our attention. There were chains, restraints, and metal rods scattered around the area.

It was not what we had expected to find.

However, until forensic investigators arrived, we knew we had to be extremely careful about disturbing potential evidence.

“Clear,” one officer called out.

“Clear,” said another.

“Clear,” I confirmed.

The basement was empty.

“Guys, you need to see this,” one of the officers upstairs called out.

We quickly returned to the ground floor.

The officer pointed toward the lock on front door which we kicked open.

After examining it, we realized what had happened. The type of lock installed on the door could be engaged while the door was open and would remain locked once the door was closed.

The suspect could have locked the door, left the house, and closed it behind them.

Our initial belief that the killer was still inside suddenly became far less certain. We lowered our weapons and returned them to their holsters.

I then escorted Carie inside so she could identify the victim. I was careful not to expose her to the full scene. I showed her only enough to identify the woman’s face.

I didn’t want her to see what had been done to her friend. Carie identified the victim as Laura.

I immediately escorted the devastated woman back outside to protect both her and the integrity of the crime scene.

While we waited for the forensic team to arrive, we suddenly heard something.

A movement.

Everyone froze.

The sound came from above us.

The attic.

We all heard it clearly. Something - or someone - was moving up there.

Without hesitation, we drew our weapons again and quietly began searching for a way into the attic.

Eventually, I found the entrance hidden inside a closet.

We carefully moved a table underneath the attic hatch.

I climbed onto the table, fully aware that one of the knives from the kitchen was still missing.

“Police!” I shouted. “Is anyone in the attic?”

For several seconds, there was silence.

Then I heard a faint voice from the far side of the attic.

“Yes.”

“Are you armed?” I asked.

There was a pause.

Then the same voice responded.

“Yes.”

My grip tightened.

“I am coming through,” I said. “Do not attack me.”

There was no response.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

After another long silence, I finally heard:

“Yes.”

I slowly opened the attic hatch and raised my weapon toward the direction of the voice.

What I saw shocked me more than the body downstairs.

A young boy was sitting in the darkness.

He looked weak and exhausted. Despite his condition, he was holding a knife and pointing it toward me. His hands were trembling so badly that it appeared as though he could barely hold the weapon.

His face was covered in blood.

I couldn’t immediately tell whether it belonged to him or to the victim downstairs.

He had visible injuries to his face. Part of his lip appeared to be bitten off, and there were bite marks on his cheeks and skin.

Despite the knife pointed in my direction, something about him made me hesitate.

He looked terrified.

I slowly lowered my weapon and raised my free hand.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said.

Then I asked him, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

The boy quietly told me his name. He agreed to cooperate. He slowly climbed down from the attic and surrendered to the officers.

He couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old. He looked severely exhausted, as though he hadn’t eaten properly in days. His hands were shaking, and his wrists were covered in scratches and injuries consistent with restraints.

He cooperated with us and answered the questions we asked him. Eventually, he admitted that he had been responsible for Laura’s death. But one thing was obvious. Whatever had happened inside that house, the boy had been through hell.

When we finally handed the scene over to the homicide unit and prepared to leave, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The young boy who had committed such a terrible act. The terrified child I had found hiding in the attic.

My eyes filled with tears as I thought about my own daughter. She was about the same age as him.

As we drove away from 17 Chesterton Lane, I couldn’t stop thinking about her smile, her innocence, and how quickly everything in a child’s life could change.

At that moment, the horrors of that house felt far too personal. I thought about the young boy we had just found and then about my daughter waiting for me at home. Whatever dangers exists beyond my control, there was only one thing I truly knew:

I would do everything in my power to protect her.

A few years ago, I used to share those photos on Instagram. Now that I’ve ditched all my social media presence, and this blog is the only place where I share things, I needed a way to share photos here.

My immediate thought was to create a photo tag and use that, so all the photos could be filtered by the tag and become part of the blog feed too. But I also like the wall of photos you see on Instagram. So I decided I needed nothing less than that and created a /photos page powered by the photo tag.

So, here I am: introducing /photos, with some random shots I’ve taken over the past couple of months.

We went to an arcade for my daughter’s birthday, and she won this little toy from the claw machine. She gave it to me, and I absolutely love it. It has now found a permanent spot on my work table.

With this post, I’m introducing my #TIL posts.

What is epistemic trespassing?

Epistemic trespassing is when an expert in one field makes claims or judgments about a field outside their area of expertise.

In other words, it’s when an expert assumes that their expertise in one field can be applied to a completely different field.

Eg: imagine an expert doctor making claims about food and nutrition simply because they’re a doctor.

Source

Strings of fibre from my cat’s tree

Wiidookdaadiwin

Somewhere near Wiidookdaadiwin

Low battery! Low battery! Low battery!

I have 2 MacBooks, 1 iPad, 1 iPhone, 1 Apple Watch, and 1 pair of AirPods.

At any given time, at least one of them is dead and needs charging. I don’t worry too much about my MacBooks and iPad because I don’t carry them around. They mostly stay near a power socket. The problem is the other three devices. I carry them everywhere, so I have to constantly make sure they are charged.

I have to admit, I’m terrible at keeping my devices charged. My phone would often be dead if my wife didn’t remind me to charge it. Another problem is that I have to carry all the different chargers with me wherever I go.

So, I have two options.

Option 1: Develop a habit of charging my devices regularly. I tried that and failed miserably.

Option 2: Replace my devices with ones that don’t require frequent charging.

First, my iPhone. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can replace that. But the other two devices I carry around can be changed.

So, I ditched my Apple Watch in favour of a Casio W-217H, and my AirPods for the Sony MDR-ZX310AP ZX Series. Man, that was liberating.

Now, the only device I need to charge regularly is my phone. And even that, I usually charge in my car while driving rather than doing it at home on a regular basis.

A couple of weeks later, I realised there was one thing I missed: activity tracking. Without my Apple Watch, I couldn’t track my runs and walks.

I started looking for a basic fitness band that could track my runs and walks. I ended up buying a Fitbit Inspire 3 (and not the Fitbit Air), mainly because it has up to 10 days of battery life and, like my Casio, it shows the time.

And that’s how I Dischargered my life.