The blue sedan brakes at the end of Aunt Ronna’s block. The driver and passenger look like they’re consulting a GPS, but what if they’re onto me? My breath turns ragged. Halfway up the block in the other direction, a FedEx truck veers to the curb, its flashers on. Nobody jumps out with a package. Am I being followed? Do these folks know what’s under the quilted cover of my casserole dish?