It's about 8 p.m. and you prepare dinner alone in the kitchen. The TV is on in the living room, but you can hear snippets of what could be the evening news despite the sound of the microwave. Aparently, some riots in the city tonight. You look outside the window: everything seems OK; just the empty streets of your suburban neighboorhood. A car approaches, and its headlights reveal a cat crossing the street. The oven suddenly produces a sharp sound, announcing that dinner's ready. You open the oven, take the lasagne, grab a pack of chips and a cold beer from the fridge. Time to eat.