When the phone rings in the night, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck leap to attention. My brain lights up like a department store Christmas display with circuits sizzling fast as a tilted pinball machine. I am on high alert baby, flight or fight chemicals racing through my blood freaked, fried, and tie dyed. It's gotta be bad news. Publishers Clearing house is not calling me at 2 a.m. My mind throws out a million tragic scenarios in the heartbeat it takes to pick up the phone. Someone's dead, sick, lost, didn't come home yet, in jail, in the hospital. Something is wrong. I know this, I feel it and I'm right. It's a wrong number.