"Yep." She's smiling at our astonished expressions. She says, "I'll go poke my head up in the attic and tell him you guys are here." She disappears around the far corner of the living room. Two minutes after she's gone, the faint thumps, taps, and scratching noises from above cease. And a few seconds after that, I can here an excited voice and a stomping of feet as someone hurriedly approaches.

A sudden blur. Lee streaks through the living room at light speed. Totally ignoring us, he bolts out the front door, squealing something about "the cops," and slams it shut behind.

He passed so fast that I can barely form a picture in my head of a barefoot man in gray long-johns.

Stephanie's urgent tone keeps us from following. "Just let him go—he'll be right back." Much more casually, she adds, "He's always like this when he hasn't had any sleep."

I remember her saying that he'd spent the last three days in the attic. I ask, "When was the last time he slept?"

"Let me see here. . .what's the date? Oh, yeah. . ." She's quiet for a moment, deep in thought, counting the slender fingers on one. . .No. . .on both hands now? She answers, "Twelve days."

"Holy shit!" we exclaim. Joel and I mirror identical looks of astonishment. She bursts into laughter.

"That ain't nothing! I've seen him go fifteen days totally tweaked before. The last time he was as spun as he is now, he was talking about catching a big wave, and rode his surfboard off the roof and into the hot tub next door!"

Shaking my head, I recall the broken surfboard out on the porch.

Joel says, "When you say tweaked, do you mean that he's high on drugs?"

Again she explodes into laughter. Wiping tears from her eyes, she says, "Yep." She giggles some more. "You boys are from Beverly Hills."

The sound of breaking glass from the rear of the house, and we hurry for the sharp noise. In the kitchen, broken pieces of glass and a few dead flowers lay strewn across the counter and floor. I look up as Lee, grunting, climbs in through the window. In a flash, he shoots by again. We race after him into the living room. Here, he speeds from one window to the next, slamming each one shut and dropping the blinds. Eyes bulging and chest heaving with frantic breaths, he whirls on us.

"Joel-it's-great-to-see-you! How-you-doing? Great-to-meet-you-Mylan-I'm-Lee!" The words eject from his mouth like a fast forward command on a camcorder. He doesn't wait for a response. He grabs me, spins me around, and then quickly pats my arms, next my sides, on to my chest and back, and finally my legs. He lifts up my left foot and looks at the bottom of my shoe. Then he lifts up my right. I'm frozen in shock at this strange behavior.

"You-guys-aren't-wired-are-you? You-never-know-nowadays-cops-are-everywhere!" He pauses. Suddenly he shrieks, "Were-you-guys-followed?" He kills the lights, sprints to the front window looking on the street, and cracks open a blind. The silhouette of his head darts from side to side. He races to each unchecked window, repeating his hasty surveillance.