I drove up into the hills late at night and parked on a
narrow street. Following instructions from the caller, I walked up a driveway.
It rose steeply and seemed to go on and on. There were no lights, but luckily I
carry a flashlight for examining throats. After a hundred yards, I came to a
small house with no lighted windows. No one answered my knock. There were two
cars in the garage, so I assumed someone was home. I pounded on the door inside
the garage. The lights came on, and a nervous woman’s face appeared at a
window.
“I’m the doctor,” I said. “Is this 232 North Beverly
Glen?”
It wasn’t. That was the house on the street. My
instructions to “park on the street and walk up the driveway” weren’t wrong,
but the caller failed to add that his front door was only a few yards up.
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