There were other sections of town with names. Stacey Spratz drove Gregor through at least one of them, called New Preston. He also drove Gregor past some of the most spectacular houses Gregor had ever seen, even more impressive than the big ones in the best parts of the Main Line suburbs. Large brown-and-beige Tudors and white clapboards sat high on hills so steep Gregor had no idea how anybody managed to mow the lawns. Blank-faced brick Federals with half a dozen additions sprawled across three hundred feet of frontage, looking more like institutions than private residences, but private nonetheless. No more than a third of the roads they passed had road signs. “People steal them,” Stacey Spratz said when Gregor asked. “The theory is, if you don’t know where you are, you don’t belong here. And if you don’t belong here, you’ve probably got it in mind to steal something, so we’re not going to make it any easier for you. Although I don’t know why they think somebody’s going to come out here and steal something.
