Nothing gets the ol' blood pumpin' like the strong smell of smoke.

Laura and I had just watched 13 Going on 30—the credits were still rolling—when suddenly I bolted to my feet. "Do you smell that?" I said.

"Yes," said Laura.

My pulse had sped up to about 200 beats a minute. We raced from one end of the apartment to the other, sniffing. Laura went downstairs into the basement to check things out—our downstairs neighbor has already moved out of the house—while Ella and I ventured out front, out back, around the side of the house, and ultimately to the apartment upstairs. I had the cordless phone in my shaky hand, ready to dial 911 at the first sign of flame. Nothing. But we could still smell smoke strongly in our living room, and I could smell it as well outside in the passage at the between our house and the next, near our living room window.

Had one of us missed something smoldering somewhere? Would a whole wall suddenly burst into flame as the old insulation finally caught? I went carefully along the side of the house again, sniff sniff sniffing like the Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The smell seemed strongest near our neighbors' window, a couple of feet above my head.

I went out front. Our neighbor Tony was standing in his doorway. "You cooking something?" I asked.

He shook his head long-sufferingly. "The wife burned some food. The whole place is fulla smoke."

Mystery solved, and heartrate returned to normal. I'll say one thing for a scare like that—it exhausts you so much that you get in bed and pass right out.