“It’s beautiful,” Aunt Guin says as she opens her door. It’s only now that I realize the van has come to a stop. I hear a second door open, so I stretch and, with a few more blinks, clear my eyes. I look out the window, but my eyes must not be fully adjusted. The house appears decrepit. There’s a porch and a second-floor balcony held up by willpower and chipped paint; in fact, the whole house looks like it’s held together by willpower and chipped paint. “It is perfect, absolutely perfect,” Aunt Guin raves. “I thought you’d like it,” Art says. “It’s ideal,” she replies. I keep blinking but nothing changes. I open my backpack to check for sunglasses. There’s a pair inside the makeup bag, sitting right on top. I quickly put them on, but they don’t improve the house’s appearance. It must be the van’s side window—please let it be the side window. Sliding the door open reveals a yard that is screaming out for aban–doned cars and a beat-up rv. The yard is the deathbed on which the house lies.
