one<br > OMETHING was wrong. I eased out of the van， shut the<br > door as soundlessly as I could， and jogged up toward the<br >house， leaving behind what I d come to deliver. Because<br >something was definitely wrong.<br > From half a mile down the road， I d spotted the lights;<br >every damn light in the house was going， which was way out<br >of character for its occupant， an elderly woman who had<br >pinched pennies for so many yea~s it was second nature now<br >to sit in the dark and save on elecC~ricity. Yet here the house<br >was， lit up like Christmas， beacons of light streaking out the<br >windows of the clapboard crackerbox and cutting through the<br >night the way a movie projector cuts through a dark theater.<br > The next thing I noticed was the cars. Even before I d<br >brought the van to a halt， I noticed them， parked fight up<br >there next to the house， on the lawn， crowding the screened-<br >in porch like relatives at a millionaire s deathbed. Actually，<br >only one of the two vehicles was a car: a late-model white<br >Pontiac GTO trimmed in sporty， tasteless red and blue--you<br >could be arrested for desecrating the flag driving that car.<br >The other vehicle was， like my Dodge， a van; only this one<br >was a Ford and--unlike my relatively new， sky blue<br >number--pale green and of indeterminate age.<br > The cars were just as wrong as the bright lights; the resi-<br >dent of the little bungalow didn t own any sort of car， let alone<br >a GTO or a van， both of which seemed a little unlikely for<br >an elderly， mostly incapacitated person. Why not a Harley<br >Davidson， or a submarine?<br ><br >