Neighborhood watch

I'm walking from my slightly scary parking lot to my apartment after work today, talking to Abbey on the phone, when I pass a car with a Nevada license plate idling in the driveway. A scratchy, cigarette-damaged voice yells "Hey Sweetie, did you hear what happened today?" I look into the car window and there's one of my neighbors from the next-door building, an older woman who moved in not long ago. "No," I say, a bit confused. Apparently, an armed woman robbed a bank on a nearby street and is still on the run. "Sweetie," the woman says in that cheap waitress voice. "Lock your doors and your windows and scream as loud as you can if you see anything. I have three sons and they'll be over in a second if anything's wrong. Do you have anything to put in front of your door?" OK, it's nice to know that someone's looking out for me, but I'm a big girl, and honestly, I'm not that concerned about the robber at large. But here's where things get more strange: "Sweetie, when you get into your place, flash your lights three times, or else I'm calling 911. Seriously. I want to bake for you." What? Do those sentences actually belong in the same breath? "Do you like chocolate?" Yeah. "Brownies or cake?" Um, either. "Do you like lava cake?" Yes. "Mint, raspberry, or chocolate." I'm so confused. Any of those are good. "OK. Here, take down my number. Don't hesitate to call. That woman is desperate." Who are we talking about now? I manage to end the conversation a good ten minutes later. At least until I walk about five feet away from the car and then she's talking, or rather yelling, again about the robber and how the school was closed and to be careful. I say thanks and goodnight, walk upstairs, flash my bedroom lights three times and hope she sees them.