Some years ago I lived in Nashville, and like many creatives in Music City, I worked at a studio. One morning a sound engineer accidently keyed in the wrong code to the alarm system, triggering a very loud and embarrassing siren. I was able to shut the system down, and I assumed the police would soon be on their way to investigate. No problem, I’ll just explain what happened and things will be fine.
A few hours went by with no police showing up, so I figured they recognized it as a false alarm. By the end of the day I had forgotten all about the mishap. As the sun set, I began to shut down the studio and head to my men’s Bible study. I cut the lights and started shoving studio equipment into my backpack. That’s when I heard it—the sound of voices in the front lobby. Suddenly, a flashlight pointed in my face. Two police officers were there, following up on a call that an alarm went off.
“Officers,” I said, “that alarm triggered hours ago.” It looked bad. There I was in a dark room shoveling expensive gear into my backpack. Should I tell them that
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