She turned, pointing herself in the direction of her car that earlier she’d moved to the end of the block beneath one of the streetlights. Her gaze lifted to the holiday decorations suspended from the metal poles along the avenue. When she was a kid, they’d been tired-looking tinseled bells and dusty angels, but in the new millennium they were bright polyester flags depicting holiday icons like nutcrackers and snowmen. Over her silver Passat hung one stamped with a multicolored tree ornament, and beside her car was a little man in a uniform holding a ticket book.

A ticket book?

“No!” she called out, rushing down the walkway and along the sidewalk. She wasn’t going to get a citation. She couldn’t. Wasn’t being back in the shop enough? Wasn’t it already unfair that she’d be spending the night in her old twin-sized canopy bed, sleeping with her Nirvana posters instead of on her Posturepedic mattress and with her framed Picasso prints? Her day wasn’t supposed to get any worse. “Hey!”

The elderly man didn’t look up.

Bailey was going to break his busy little pencil in half. “Listen,” she said, in her meanest I-manage-a-hundred-attorney-law-firm voice, the one even the toothiest of shark-lawyers feared, “what do you think you’re doing?”

The man looked up. “Eh?” His fingers went to the hearing aid nestled in his right ear. “Bailey? Bailey Sullivan?”

“Mr. Baer?” He used to live down the street from her family home. She supposed he still did. “What are you doing?”

He gestured to the car parked on the other side of hers. The one with “Retired Citizens Service Patrol” emblazoned on its side. It was gleaming white, official enough to have a cherry-red light on top and a sturdy-looking something that might be a cattle prod attached to the front grille. “I’m on the job.”