The architecture had some inherent charm, and the home must have been nice in its day, but it had lapsed into a state of disrepair. The garage door had a hole in it. Ivy had crept up the side of the house and was wearing away the mortar. The gutter system had collapsed, leading water to drip down the side of the house, dislodging chunks of brick and stone in the process. The lawn was an absolute disaster, years past the point where it could even be called a lawn. The weeds had vanquished the grass and established a flourishing empire. These weeds were rich in their diversity—some had flowers, some had spines, one had a cylindrical protuberance that discharged toxic pollen. This all stood in sharp contrast to the other homes in the subdivision with their finely manicured yards. The front porch was littered with a peculiar mélange of garbage—some traditional suburban fare such as empty diet soda cans and pizza boxes and, incongruously, the wrappers of organic energy bars and spent containers of homeopathic remedies.
