It was midnight. My husband covered it with a towel, and we went to sleep. At 2 a.m., the door burst open. The Airbnb owner stormed in, furious, screaming, “You idiots, this is a…
fire alarm!“
My husband and I sat up in bed, blinking like deer caught in headlights. The owner, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and a Hawaiian-print shirt that looked wildly out of place given the situation, stood in the doorway, panting. His eyes darted between us and the towel-covered device.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” he continued, his voice a mix of panic and exhaustion.
I looked at my husband, who was still processing everything. “Wait, what?” I managed to say.
