So yeah. I didn’t blame them for being a little skeptical.

From what I could see out the front windows, it looked like we were heading into some prime real estate. This must have been the Main Line I’d heard about. The old-money suburbs west of Philadelphia. We passed private schools with great stone archways guarding the entrances. We passed Villanova University, sitting high on a hill. I found myself wondering if they had a good art school. We passed a long sloping lawn with strings of lights and white furniture set out for some sort of party. All of it in a world I’d never get to see in any legal, legitimate way.

We kept going until we hit Bryn Mawr, past another college I didn’t catch the name of, until we finally took a right off of the main road. The houses started to get bigger and bigger, yet still there was nobody to stop us. No uniformed men with tin badges and clipboards to check our credentials. That was the thing about these old-money houses. They were built years before anyone ever dreamed of “gated communities.”

Manhattan pulled the van into the long driveway, drove it all the way back, past the loop that would have taken us to the front door, instead going around to the back of the house, where there was a large paved area and what looked to be a five-car garage. The two men put on their surgical gloves. I took the pair they gave me and put them in my pocket. I had never tried doing any of this with gloves on, and I wasn’t about to experiment now. Manhattan seemed to make a mental note of my bare hands but didn’t say anything about it.

We got out of the van and made our way across a large veranda to the back door. There was a thick line of pine trees surrounding the backyard. A motion sensor light snapped on as soon as we got close to the house, but nobody flinched. The light did nothing but welcome us, anyway. Right this way, sirs. Let me show you fine gentlemen exactly where you’re going.