The Shepherd’s people never got within a step of the house.
The first was a “real estate agent,” going door to door asking whether anyone wanted to sell, taking pictures the whole way.
By the third house, two “neighbors” walking their dogs took him by the arms and politely escorted him into an unmarked pickup.
The second came in a power company uniform for an inspection. The badge was real. The work order was fake.
The moment he climbed the utility pole, three men on the roof across the street waved at him in perfect unison.
The third went up the water tower with a long instrument case on his back.
He lay down and opened the case—only to find a young guy crouched beside him, cracking sunflower seeds.
Screw, the prospect, blew away a seed shell and grinned at him.
“Buddy, this spot’
