The wind picked up and the sudden pitter-patter on the asphalt behind her sent her heart racing again. She turned, expecting the worst, at the same time two dry leaves rolled past her toward the next street light. She looked at the houses and tried to remember the number of the one she sought, but the address remained elusive. She’d never taken the time to learn the numbers because the home had been so perfect, she hadn’t needed the number to find it. Now she wished she’d taken the time to commit the information to memory, or at least stored it in her phone. What if he’d painted or renovated? If he’d changed anything, she might never find it. She continued onto the next block and breathed a sigh of relief when recognition set in. The fire hydrant, his neighbor’s obscurely decorated mailbox, a birdbath across the street. Her relief lasted only a moment. The sound of a car racing up the street behind her caused her to run, and she cut across the expertly manicured lawn and hid in the shadows on the porch.
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