The antique store was creepy the first time we entered. The second time I made my husband go in alone. As I sat in the truck — parked in the adjacent alley with hazard lights flashing — I considered it may have been wiser to go with him. I was alone in an old farm truck in a deserted alley, watching what very well could have been a drug deal going on between some sketchy characters at the other end of the street. I took comfort from the pipe wrench on the floor, hammer on the dash, ratchet straps on the seat, and box of shotgun shells in the glove box.