The call came in early that morning, some guy named Mark panicking about a burnt wire and a busted changeover switch in his garage. I grabbed my toolkit, hopped in the van, and headed over to the address in the suburbs. Nice neighborhood—big houses, manicured lawns. When Mark opened the door, he looked harried, like he'd been up all night dealing with whatever electrical nightmare had sparked. 'Andrew, right? Thank God you're here. It's in the garage. I can't mess with it myself; last thing I ...