The first electric bill after I moved to Alder Street was high enough to make me call the utility company. The representative blamed summer rates and my old water heater. I accepted that explanation because the house had belonged to Aunt Vivian, who believed appliances should outlive their warranties by decades. I replaced the heater, sealed two windows, and began turning off lights with the zeal of someone trying to prove she deserved the mortgage.
Still, the porch lamp dimmed most nights around one. I noticed because unpacking kept me awake. The bulb would fade, brighten, then fade again while a faint clicking came from the wall beside the front closet. An electrician tested the circuit during daylight and found nothing wrong. He suggested squirrels, moisture, or an appliance I had forgotten. I did not mention that the dimming stopped every morning before sunrise.
My neighbor Celia drove a white electric hatchback and waved whenever we collected mail. She taught music at the middle school and lived with her teenage nephew, Marcus. Vivian's address book listed Celia beside a note that said basil, spare ladder, good in storms. I wanted that history to become mine. When Celia brought tomatoes, I returned the basket with muffins and ignored how often her car sat close to the hedge dividing our driveways.
One humid morning, I stepped outside barefoot to move a package before rain. A black cable disappeared beneath the hydrangeas beside my porch. I followed it past the railing, through a gap in the hedge, and into the charging port of Celia's car. The plug at my end was hidden inside Vivian's unlocked weatherproof outlet. As I stood there holding the damp cord, Celia's kitchen curtain moved and the car's dashboard lights went dark. I could hear my own breath quicken.